THE   MOAN   OF 
THE  TIBER 


By 

GUY    FITCH    PHELPS 

Author  of  "The  Black  Prophet," 
"The  Angel  o'  Deadman,"  Etc. 


CINCINNATI 

™£  STANDARD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1917 
The  Standard  Publishing  Company 


5141051 

URl 


DEDICATION 

To  my  boyhood  friend,  George  Grant  Rose, 
my  life  companion,  whose  unchanging  loyalty 
and  love  have  been  to  me  a  ceaseless  joy  and 
strength.  Together  we  have  followed  the 
dim  trails  of  the  West,  slept  in  the  bunch  grass 
and  listened  to  the  cosmic  sorrow  in  the  pines. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

A  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  AUTHOR 9 

I   THE  CURTAIN   19 

II    THE  EGGS  OF  THE  ASP 24 

III  THE  PLAYERS  AND  THEIR  PARTS 30 

IV  THE  HOUSE  OF  TEARS 35 

V   THE  BUGLES  OF  COURAGE 50 

VI   THE  WINGS  OF  LOVE 66 

VII   BREAKING  THE  IRON  JAW  ,,,,,,,,,,,,  76 


PREFACE 


pERSONS  unacquainted  with  the  sinister 
*  facts  concerning  the  Houses  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  prisons  as  they  are  operated  to-day 
in  the  United  States,  for  the  benefit  of  Rome, 
may  imagine  that  some  of  the  scenes  in  this 
story  especially  descriptive  of  the  treatment 
of  the  inmates  of  the  Houses  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  are  exaggerated.  Those,  however, 
who  have  personally  investigated  conditions, 
and  especially  those  who  have  investigated 
the  numerous  cases  where  girls  have  escaped, 
or  attempted  escape,  during  the  past  five 
years  will  agree  that  the  description  given  by 
Mr.  Phelps  is  an  understatement  rather  than 
an  overstatement  of  the  facts. 

The  Menace,  during  the  past  five  years, 
has  had  its  commissioners  thoroughly  investi 
gate  a  number  of  instances  connected  with 
various  Houses  of  the  Good  Shepherd  in  dif 
ferent  parts  of  the  country,  when  girls,  at  the 
hazard  of  their  lives,  have  jumped  from  win 
dows  and  otherwise  attempted  to  escape,  and 
these  stories  reveal  conditions  graver  and 
more  terrible  than  the  vivid  pen  pictures 


PREFACE 

given  by  Mr.  Phelps  in  "The  Moan  of  the 
Tiber."  Indeed,  his  story  is  based  on  facts, 
and  as  a  general  statement  is  history  rather 
than  fiction. 

The  Bouses  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  with 
their  laundries  and  workshops,  are  enormous 
revenue-yielding  institutions  which  escape 
taxation,  and  enable  Rome  to  further  fatten 
on  the  unpaid  toil  of  the  little  child  slaves. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  AUTHOR 


FITCH  PHELPS,  the  author  of  "The 
Black  Prophet"  and  that  great  temper 
ance-reform  story,  *  '  The  Angel  0  '  Deadman,  '  ' 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  personalities 
among  the  popular  writers  of  the  day. 

While  his  earlier  romances  struck  a 
responsive  heart-chord  and  won  many  warm 
friends  among  lovers  of  strong,  fine,  pure 
and  inspiring  fiction,  it  was  not  till  the 
publication  of  "The  Black  Prophet"  in  the 
Menace,  when  millions  of  eager  Americans 
read  this  most  powerful  and  convincing  of 
all  anti-Papal  romances,  that  he  leaped  into 
nation-wide  popularity.  When  the  book  ap 
peared,  there  was  an  instantaneous  demand 
for  it  from  every  corner  in  the  land  and 
from  many  foreign  countries. 

This  demand  has  steadily  grown,  and 
several  editions  have  already  been  called  for, 
yet  we  believe  that  its  present  success  is  but 
a  prophecy  of  its  future  circulation.  Indeed, 
we  shall  not  be  surprised  if  its  sales  run  up 
into  the  hundreds  of  thousands,  for  it  com 
bines  the  two  elements  of  strength  and  popu 
larity  in  such  marked  degree  that  it  will 
doubtless  soon  be  counted,  in  point  of  sales,  xi 
with  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  and  Edward 
Bellamy's  "Looking  Backward." 


A  TRIBUTE   TO   THE  AUTHOR 

Heretofore,  Eugene  Sue's  distinctly  great 
expose  of  the  secret  workings  of  the  Jesuits, 
and  the  political  intrigues  of  the  Roman 
machine,  as  portrayed  in  "The  Wandering 
Jew,"  was  the  one  great  anti-Papal  novel 
of  wo  rid- wide  fame.  "The  Black  Prophet," 
however,  eclipses  this  romance  in  many 
respects.  It  is  direct,  vivid  and  enthralling. 
It  strips  the  mask  of  hypocritical  pretense 
from  the  age-long,  persecuting,  intolerant, 
reason-blighting,  civilization-retarding,  polit 
ico-religious  machine  known  as  the  Roman 
hierarchy  in  such  a  manner  as  to  startle  the 
sleeping  Protestants  that  have  been  drugged 
by  the  most  cunning  Jesuitical  propaganda 
the  world  has  ever  seen. 

Here  is  the  truth.  Here  are  facts — facts 
that  are  part  of  the  history  of  the  hour,  pre 
sented  so  graphically  that  the  reader  can  not 
forget.  Here,  also,  we  are  taken  behind  the 
curtains,  and  behold  the  Roman  hierarchy, 
and  its  great  political  arm,  the  Knights  of 
Columbus,  at  work  in  secret  conclave.  Never 
has  there  been  presented  a  truer  or  more 
vivid  and  convincing  picture  of  the  mighty 
nation-wide,  autocratic  and  anti-democratic 
machine  of  Rome  as  is  presented  in  the  pages 
of  this  wonderful  romance,  which  is  truer 
than  conventional  history. 

There  is,  however,  another  element  of 
strength  in  "The  Black  Prophet."  It  is  one 
of  the  most  thrillingly  interesting  love  stories 
of  the  day.  Here  the  lover  of  powerful, 
virile  romance  will  follow  with  breathless 
interest  the  career  of  the  clean,  truth-loving, 

10 


A  TRIBUTE   TO   THE   AUTHOR 

idealistic  priest,  Mark  Gordon,  and  the  beau 
tiful  heiress  who  is  urged  into  the  convent 
by  harpies  of  avarice  and  sensuality,  only  to 
be  rescued  when  all  doors  of  opportunity  for 
escape  seemed  to  be  closed,  and  hope  surren 
dering  to  despair. 

This  story  alone  would  give  Mr.  Phelps 
a  permanent  place  among  our  novel-writers. 

But  it  is  with  the  man,  rather  than  with  his 
work,  that  we  are  at  present  concerned.  The 
reading  public  is  always  interested  in  the 
personality  of  a  favorite  author,  and  one  of 
the  first  questions  people  interested  in  great 
ethical  and  reformative  issues  ask  relates  to 
the  writer's  integrity  as  an  author.  Is  he 
sincere?  Is  he  in  earnest,  or  simply  seeking 
fame  or  wealth  for  himself?  So,  before  notic 
ing  the  story  of  his  life,  let  it  be  said  that 
Guy  Fitch  Phelps  is  a  militant  and  funda 
mental  Protestant  Democrat.  Into  the  mighty 
cause  of  freedom  and  unsullied  Christianity 
— the  work  of  restoring  and  preserving  the 
glorious  heritage  bequeathed  to  the  world 
by  the  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independ 
ence  and  his  copatriots — Mr.  Phelps  has 
thrown  his  whole  life,  with  its  wealth  of 
moral  idealism,  its  rich  imagination,  and 
virile,  untainted  and  brilliant  intellectual 
power. 

Mr.  Phelps  loves  the  Christianity  of 
Christ  and  the  primitive  church  with  the 
love  and  passion  of  a  John  Huss  or  a  Savon 
arola,  and  his  devotion  to  our  liberal  Democ-*' 
racy  is  as  whole-souled  as  was  that  of  Patrick 
Henry,  James  Otis  or  Samuel  Adams.  It  is 

11 


A  TRIBUTE   TO   THE   AUTHOR 

this  loyalty  to  the  religion  of  Christ  and 
the  Democracy  of  Jefferson  that  compelled 
the  young  novelist  to  pour  his  whole  soul 
into  the  writing  of  "The  Black  Prophet," 
and  which  makes  it  the  most  vital  and  worth 
while  message  in  fiction,  dealing  with  the 
menace  of  political  Eomanism  and  Jesuitical 
intrigue. 

The  stern  moral  idealism  which  has  come 
to  him  as  a  heritige  from  two  noble  parents 
gives  him  enviable  pre-eminence  among  the 
present-day  novelists,  most  of  whose  works 
are  conspicuously  lacking  in  spiritual  enthu 
siasm  and  robust  ethical  truths. 

Mr.  Phelps'  mother  was  a  Scotchwoman 
of  marked  mental  ability,  with  imagination 
and  intense  moral  convictions.  His  father 
was  of  pure  New  England  stock,  possessing 
much  of  the  pioneer  spirit  of  the  Pilgrims 
and  Puritans,  and  not  a  little  of  their  loyalty, 
devotion  to  duty  and  austere  morality. 

The  Scotch,  like  the  Welsh,  Irish  and  the 
people  of  Brittany  in  France,  are  of  Celtic 
origin,  and  thus  it  is  not  surprising  to  find 
among  these  people  children  of  intense  feel 
ing  or  deep  emotions,  who  possessed  the  fine 
poetical  imagination  that  flowered  in  the 
verse  of  Robert  Burns,  and  it  is  out  of  the 
unsullied  life  of  lofty  idealism  which  marked 
the  Pilgrims,  Puritans  and  Quakers  that  there 
came  that  wonderful  florescence  of  poetry 
which  gave  distinction  to  the  New  England  of 
the  nineteenth  century  in  the  works  of  Henry 
W.  Longfellow,  James  Russell  Lowell,  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, 

12 


A   TRIBUTE   TO   THE   AUTHOR 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  and  William  Cullen 
Bryant.  It  is  therefore  not  surprising  to 
find  in  Guy  Fitch  Phelps  a  writer  who  pos 
sesses  much  of  moral  firmness,  rectitude,  a 
passion  for  truth  and  hatred  of  hypocrisy, 
combined  with  the  poetic  imagination  of  the 
land  of  Burns  and  that  of  Longfellow,  Whit- 
tier  and  Lowell. 

Born  in  Kansas,  his  parents,  under  the 
compulsion  of  the  daring  pioneer  spirit,  left 
the  Sunflower  State  in  1880,  and  trekked 
across  the  plains  to  the  rough  and  virgin 
Territory  of  Idaho. 

The  first  settlement  was  made  at  the  min 
ing-camp  of  Bellevue.  This  camp,  though 
only  a  few  months  old  when  the  family 
arrived,  swarmed  with  daring  desperadoes 
and  adventurous  spirits — miners,  gamblers 
and  men  and  women  with  shady  reputations. 
With  that  period  of  his  boyhood  days,  Mr. 
Phelps,  in  recounting  his  early  life,  says: 

"There  was  no  railroad  through  the  Ter 
ritory  at  that  time,  so  that  all  the  supplies 
for  the  region  were  freighted  in  by  ox  and 
mule  teams  from  Kelton,  Utah.  Though 
quite  young,  I  recall  the  wild  life  of  the  place 
with  a  relish.  I  enjoyed  it  then.  Having  a 
nature  which  responded  to  excitement,  I 
drank  in  the  thrilling  features  of  it.  Here 
I  saw  many  fights,  and  had  the  rather  ghastly 
privilege  of  seeing  two  men  killed  in  shooting 
scranes  in  the  street.  These  grew  out  of 
gambling  rows." 

As  we  can  well  imagine,  Bellevue  was 
not  a  place  after  the  heart  of  parents  of  New 

13 


A   TRIBUTE   TO   THE   AUTHOR 

England  and  Scottish  blood  and  moral  ideal 
ism,  so,  after  a  year  and  a  half's  sojourn,  the 
father  sold  out  his  business  and  pushed  west 
ward  one  hundred  miles,  settling  near  Boise 
City,  the  capital  of  the  then  Territory. 

''The  country,"  says  the  novelist,  con 
tinuing  his  reminiscences,  "was  delightfully 
wild.  Deer  roamed  over  the  mountains  in 
countless  thousands.  This  is  strictly  true. 
I  have  killed  more  than  three  hundred  of 
them.  All  kinds  of  wild  animals,  cougars, 
bear,  wolves  and  wildcats  thronged  the  can 
yons  and  hills.  'Cattle  kings,'  as  we  called 
them,  had  hundreds  of  thousands  of  cattle 
running  on  the  range.  Horsemen,  also,  had 
scores  of  thousands  of  horses  on  the  bunch 
grass.  There  in  that  romantic  and  blessed 
spot  I  grew  up.  Our  house  was  a  stopping- 
place  for  the  riders  and  strangers  who  passed. 
My  father's  door  was  always  open.  Our  few 
neighbors  would  come  in,  and  the  evening 
would  be  spent  singing  songs  and  telling 
stories.  Shut  away  from  the  great  world, 
we  grew  together.  There  were  ten  of  us.  A 
stream  of  periodicals  came  with  every  mail, 
and  reading  became  a  passion." 

The  mother  of  Mr.  Phelps  was  a  gifted 
writer  of  verse.  She  wrote  under  the  name 
of  "Naomi  McDonald  Phelps,"  and  contrib 
uted  many  beautiful  and  popular  poems  to 
temperance,  religious  and  reformative  period 
icals.  You  may  find  her  picture  and  some  of 
her  best  known  lines  in  that  fine  anthology  of 
our  verse,  "Poets  of  America."  Her  verse 
is  marked  by  fine  intuitive  qualities,  beauty 

14 


A  TRIBUTE   TO   THE   AUTHOR 

of  diction,  and  purity  and  spirituality  in 
thought  and  sentiment.  Much  of  the  mother's 
intellect  and  power  of  feeling  was  trans 
mitted  to  the  son. 

In  the  new  home,  Guy  Fitch  Phelps  spent 
his  most  susceptible  years.  In  referring  to 
this  charmed  spot  and  these  years  so  rich 
in  wealth  for  the  sensitive  imagination,  the 
author  says : 

"Thus  I  was  reared  in  the  most  romantic 
of  places,  with  the  sanity  of  virgin  nature 
environing  me,  and  the  wonderful  wild  life 
touching  me  at  every  turn  with  its  magic 
charm.  I  learned  to  dream,  to  hate  injustice, 
to  love  nature,  to  weave  romances,  and  my 
soul  grew.  Over  those  cloud-kissed  and 
eternal  mountains  I  roamed.  I  followed  the 
round-ups.  I  became  an  excellent  horseman, 
and  I  pride  myself  yet  that  few  can  swing 
to  the  saddle  with  a  better  knowledge  of  its 
meaning.  I  followed  the  dim  trails,  and  have 
often  slept  in  the  bunch  grass  without  cover 
or  pillow,  my  horse  feeding  at  the  end  of  a 
rope,  beside  me. 

"As  a  hunter,  I  have  had  some  thrilling 
little  experiences.  I  was  charged  once  by  a 
wild  cow,  and  shot  her  six  feet  from  the 
muzzle  of  the  gun.  I  was  once  compelled  to 
keep  a  wounded  buck  from  killing  me  by 
holding  his  horns.  My  ability  to  do  this  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  one  of  his  hind  legs  was 
broken.  I  have  been  thrown  from  horses  in 
all  conditions  and  places.  Never  badly  hurt. 
The  camp  fire  was  then,  and  is  now,  my  chief 
delight.  I  know  all  the  charm  and  passion 

15 


A  TRIBUTE   TO   THE   AUTHOR 

of  the  unstained  wild.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  it:  the  sunshine  streaming  over  the 
lifeful  hollows,  where  the  bucks  lie  in  their 
cool  beds ;  the  cherry  thickets,  where  the  bear 
feed  on  wild  fruit;  the  springs,  sighed  over 
by  aspens,  where  the  grouse  lead  their  broods 
at  ten  in  the  morning ;  the  vales  and  hollows, 
tracked  with  deer,  and  the  dry  foothills, 
inhabited  by  those  white  wraiths  called  ante 
lope.  There  I  have  ridden  alone,  singing  the 
songs  of  sentiment  which  circulated  through 
the  West.  I  have  written  since  I  can  remem 
ber.  I  have  always  loved  it.  The  struggle  to 
get  knowledge;  the  pushing  out  against  the 
closed  doors  on  every  hand;  the  sweet  ro 
mances  which  have  lingered  in  my  life  like  the 
fragrance  of  flowers  around  the  vase ;  with  all 
the  wild,  sad  pain  which  must  mingle  in  such 
a  cup  as  mine— these  things  live  in  my  memory 
and  are  part  of  my  life.  I  detest  forms  and 
ceremonies.  I  have  no  use  whatever  for  a 
cowardly  ministry.  I  can  not  endure  any 
kind  of  a  machine.  I  am  a  product  of  the 
West.  I  was  born  in  it.  There  I  have  lived. 
I  know  all  the  charm  and  wonder  and  romance 
of  the  dim  trails  which  lead  on  into  the  back 
of  Beyond." 

The  above  personal  confession  is  as  inter 
esting  as  it  is  self-revealing. 

Like  Edwin  Markham,  democracy's  great 
est  poet,  Guy  Fitch  Phelps  is  a  true  child  of 
the  great  and  imagination-fostering  West. 
Primeval  nature  and  the  character-developing 
influences  of  normal  life  in  a  rugged,  pictur 
esque  and  virgin  mountain  land  did  far  more 

16 


A  TRIBUTE   TO   THE  AUTHOR 

for  these  authors  than  man-made  universities, 
environed  by  the  temptations  and  moral-ener 
vating  influences  of  city  life,  and,  in  the  case 
of  each  of  these  gifted  writers,  the  after 
schooling,  valuable  as  it  was,  counted  far  less 
than  nature's  gift,  in  the  university  where 
mountain  and  sky,  rocks  and  streams,  the 
virgin  forest,  the  untrammeled  life  and  ever- 
changing  flora  of  free  nature  were  teachers 
who  confirmed  the  lessons  of  the  great  Book, 
which  for  centuries  has  been  the  fountain  of 
inspiration  and  spiritual  life  for  earth's  up 
ward  struggling  millions,  and  which  will  be 
the  fountain  of  inspiration  and  uplift  for  ages 
yet  to  come. 

AURORA,  Mo,  B,  0.  FLOWER. 


'*A.<  4 


I 

THE  CURTAIN 

TV/fARION  ALLISON  looked  down  into  her 
*•**•  mother's  face.  It  was  full  of  peace. 
Some  tears  fell  upon  the  glass.  She  removed 
them  with  a  subdued  motion.  Her  grief  was 
not  of  the  boisterous  kind.  She  had  grown 
accustomed  to  disappointment,  and  her  sub 
mission  was  that  which  comes  of  great 
denials. 

During  the  illness  which  had  terminated 
in  death,  Marion  had  been  the  sick  woman's 
constant  companion.  She  had  witnessed  the 
pain  and  increasing  weakness.  Then  came 
the  hour  when  the  mysterious  curtain  had 
dropped  between  them.  A  heavy  ache  filled 
her  heart.  However,  necessity  compelled  her 
to  think.  She  glanced  about  the  room.  The 
barren  walls  and  soiled  paper  bore  evidence 
of  the  past  and  seemed  prophetic  of  the 
future.  With  a  sob,  she  turned  to  the  en 
larged  picti  re  of  a  man.  The  face  was  frank 
and  clean.  The  eyes  were  full  of  an  almost 
boyish  confidence.  That  was  her  father  before 
the  meshes  of  bibulous  politics  had  ensnared 
him  in  the  meshes  of  manhood's  worst  sur 
render.  At  least,  she  was  proud  of  the  pic 
ture.  Then  came  memories  of  the  time  when 
he  used  to  take  her  on  his  knees  and  talk 

19 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

to  her,  but  that  was  before  the  coming  of 
the  shadow. 

With  a  fresh  rush  of  tears,  she  turned  to 
the  pastel  near  by.  It  was  plain  that  her 
mother  sat  for  it  before  the  sorrow  which 
led  to  her  death  had  begun.  The  features 
were  laughing  and  comely.  Going  to  the 
window,  Marion  looked  out  on  what  seemed 
to  be  an  endless  reach  of  fields  goldened  with 
flowers.  How  beautiful  nature  was.  The 
wretchedness  of  her  own  life  was  like  a  dis 
cord  in  the  natural  harmony.  A  bird  settled 
on  an  evergreen  and  burst  into  song.  The 
sound  brought  a  feeling  of  isolation,  yet  a 
sacrament  of  mist  which  still  clung  to  the 
distant  hills  created  a  sense  of  rest  in  her 
heavy  heart.  If  only  she  could  mingle  with 
its  remoteness  and  be  lost! 

Hearing  a  step,  she  turned  about.  The 
woman  v/ho  had  watched  beside  her  mother 
during  the  night  had  come  in  to  say  that 
she  must  go.  The  time  for  the  service  was 
near.  Marion  spoke  some  broken  words 
expressing  gratitude. 

A  little  later,  the  few  who  lived  near  and 
were  interested  began  to  come  in.  When  the 
minister  arrived  he  found  a  dozen  women 
gathered  in  the  room.  There  was  a  business 
like  brevity  about  the  service  which  was 
almost  an  affront.  The  pastor  had  many 
such  calls.  His  remarks  were  commonplace 
enough,  and,  save  for  the  sobbing  of  a  few, 
there  was  little  evidence  of  sympathy. 

The  procession  consisted  of  the  hearse  and 
two  carriages.  The  afternoon  sun  was  mov- 

20 


THE   CURTAIN 


ing  swiftly  to  its  setting.  It  had  been  impos 
sible  to  secure  even  these  two  carriages 
before,  owing  to  the  fact  that  all  the  vehicles 
in  the  city  and  neighboring  towns  had  been 
employed  to  do  honor  to  the  interment  of  a 
distiller,  famous  alike  for  his  vast  estates 
and  many  gifts  bestowed  on  the  religious 
projects  of  St.  Patrick's  Church,  of  which  he 
was  a  devout  member.  Archbishop  Crastie 
himself  had  administered  extreme  unction, 
and  would  later  conduct  masses  for  the  dead. 
The  deceased  had  made  ample  provision  that 
prayers  should  be  said  for  his  soul,  looking 
to  purgatorial  adjustments.  The  widow  had 
arranged  for  a  thousand  candles  to  be  kept 
burning  in  the  different  churches  for  a  week. 
When  the  undertaker  briefly  explained  the 
cause  of  the  delay,  Marion  glanced  at  her 
father.  He  sat  limply  in  a  corner.  She  knew 
that  he  had  emptied  many  bottles,  to  the 
degradation  of  himself  and  family,  with  the 
name  of  this  same  distiller  on  them. 

Marion  walked  to  the  carriage  between 
her  father  and  George  Ainsley,  on  whose  arm 
she  leaned.  He  had  hurried  back  from  col 
lege  to  be  with  her  in  this  time  of  trouble, 
and  she  was  greatly  sustained  by  his  quiet 
strength.  After  the  ceremonies  at  the  grave, 
its  location  being  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
Lone  Pine  Cemetery,  they  were  whirled  back 
to  the  shabby  house  where  William  Allison 
had  placed  those  dependent  upon  him. 

That  night  George  and  Marion  discussed 
their  future.  He  must  finish  college.  That 
would  mean  two  more  years.  Then  he  would 

21 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

come  for  her.  Till  that  time  she  would  remain 
with  her  father.  In  case  of  need  she  was  to 
let  him  know  at  once.  George  Ainsley  had 
always  felt  a  great  pity  for  William  Allison. 
The  man  had  once  been  strong.  He  remem 
bered  when  he  came  with  his  family  to  church 
and  was  respected.  Then  he  recalled  the 
steps  by  which  he  had  gone  down.  There  had 
been  the  demand  of  the  political  machine,  with 
its  commercial  and  religious  combinations  re 
volving  around  Archbishop  Crastie  and  the 
dead  distiller.  He  had  taken  the  platform  to 
denounce  the  unholy  alliance.  This  had 
brought  him  into  sharp  conflict  with  the  de 
fenders  of  church  and  state,  and  put  his  name 
under  the  ban  of  the  hierarchy. 

It  was  in  those  days  he  had  first  met 
Marion.  She  was  only  a  girl  then,  but 
thoughtful  and  sincere.  Even  now  she  had 
the  mien  of  one  much  beyond  her  years.  The 
invisible  something  which  was  plotting  to 
control  the  free  institutions  of  the  country 
had  spread  a  net  in  which  her  father's  feet 
had  become  tangled,  and  the  woman  he  loved 
was  an  innocent  sufferer  because  of  it.  He 
grew  hot  with  indignation.  Some  day,  in  her 
name,  he  would  strike,  and  strike  hard.  He 
little  kne  under  what  strange  circumstances 
he  would  repeat  that  vow. 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  they 
walked  out  under  the  stars.  The  night  wind 
was  moving  the  evergreens  which  fringed  the 
lawn.  From  far  away  came  the  sound  of  the 
river,  a  threnody  which  hinted  of  some  world 
sorrow  of  which  Marion  felt  herself  a  part. 

22 


THE   CURTAIN 


Below,  the  city  lights  spangled  the  dusk  like 
a  shower  of  fireflies. 

"You  will  hear  from  me  soon,  Marion," 
he  promised,  drawing  her  to  him  very  gently, 
and  touching  her  forehead  and  hair  with  his 
lips. 

"Do  write  often,  George,  for  you  know 
it  will  be  so  lonely  now,"  she  pleaded.  And 
then,  with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice:  "Are 
you  real  sure  that — that — it  does  not  make 
any  difference?  You  know  mother  was 
good?" 

He  placed  his  fingers  on  her  lips:  "Dear 
Marion,  you  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing. 
For  your  father,  I  feel  a  great  sympathy. 
There  is  a  chance  that  he  may  reform.  In 
fact,  I  have  always  expected  it.  But  what  has 
that  to  do  with  you?  I  know  you  are  worthy, 
and  I  love  you,  dear. ' ' 

She  watched  him  go  down  the  path  which 
led  timidly  away  toward  the  city,  her  lashes 
wet.  How  strong  and  noble  he  looked.  God 
had  been  very  good  to  her  in  permitting  him 
to  come  into  her  life,  and  she  would  do  her 
best  to  be  worthy  of  his  love. 


23 


II 

THE  EGGS  OF  THE  ASP 

OSS    BAKEE,    confidential    man    of    the 

Light  &  Power  Company,  and  general 
manager  of  all  the  interests  of  the  city 
machine,  climbed  into  his  auto  and  was 
whirled  away. 

He  sat  in  the  back  seat  stoical  and  expres 
sionless.  He  did  not  see  the  throngs  through 
which  he  was  passing,  nor  did  he  notice  the 
prominent  business  places.  These  were  as 
familiar  to  him  as  the  steps  at  his  front 
door,  as  were  the  flamboyant  resorts  farther 
down,  where  the  clearer  waters  of  the  better 
elements  met  the  rile  of  the  mudflats  and 
hell's  acreage  of  the  North  End.  He  was 
well  acquainted,  too,  with  every  wheel  within 
a  wheel  which  went  to  make  up  the  political 
and  religious  whole  of  which  he,  for  no  mean 
price,  was  the  political  overseer. 

The  elections  were  at  hand,  and  Boss 
Baker  was  very  busy.  He  had  just  received 
a  call  over  the  ,'nhone  from  no  less  a  person 
age  than  Archbishop  Crastie  himself,  and 
everything  else  had  been  put  aside  to  attend 
to  this  important  matter. 

In  front  of  the  episcopal  residence  he 
alighted,  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  gave 
directions  for  the  machine  to  be  back  in  an 

24 


THE   EGGS   OF  THE   ASP 

hour.  Then  he  climbed  the  steps  as  fast  as 
his  corpulency  would  permit,  and  was  re 
ceived  by  the  prelate  himself. 

Formalities  were  dispensed  with.  These 
men  understood  each  other  perfectly.  They 
had  met  under  such  circumstances  before. 
The  archbishop  led  the  way  into  his  private 
office  and  indicated  a  chair  with  an  authori 
tative  gesture.  There  was  a  table  between 
them.  The  boss  took  cigars  from  his  pocket 
mechanically,  and  gave  one  to  the  priest. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me,  Your  Grace?" 
he  asked,  blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke  toward 
the  ceiling. 

"On  very  important  matters.  There  are 
several  things  which  demand  our  attention. 
The  situation  requires  a  united  effort  to 
adjust  it  satisfactorily." 

"Proceed." 

The  tone  indicated  perfect  willingness  on 
the  part  of  the  politician.  The  archbishop 
looked  keenly  at  his  visitor. 

"First,  then,  I  call  your  attention  to  the 
fact  that  a  new  element  is  making  itself  felt 
in  the  city.  I  have  it  from  my  assistants  that 
a  bill  is  to  be  presented  at  the  next  session 
of  the  Legislature  demanding  the  opening 
of  our  Holy  Houses.  This  infamous  measure 
must  be  killed!  Understand?  Killed;  and 
those  bigots  who  are  agitating  it  defeated  so 
utterly  that  they  will  never  again  seek  office. 
In  this  I  pledge  you  the  support  of  practically 
the  entire  Catholic  vote." 

The  politician  removed  the  cigar  from  his 
lips. 

25 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

"Have  you  a  list  of  the  supporters  of  this 
measure  ?" 

The  prelate  took  a  paper  from  the  drawer 
and  pushed  it  across  the  table.  "You  will 
find  them  there,  with  their  counties." 

The  politician  ran  them  over  briefly.  "All 
known  to  me,"  he  commented,  suggestively, 
"but  it  will  take  funds  to  accomplish  their 
defeat." 

"I  understand  that  very  well.  You  shall 
have  what  you  need.  The  Catholic  Church 
has  means  of  securing  revenue." 

"What  else,  Your  Grace!"  The  words 
were  full  of  condescension. 

"Simply  that,  with  the  return  of  other 
judicial  favorites  of  ours,  you  must  see  to 
it  that  Mr.  Gatenby  is  reinstated  as  juvenile 
judge.  Much  depends  on  this.  Besides,  he 
is  a  faithful  son  of  the  church.  You  demand 
funds.  That  is  very  well,  but  where  are  they 
to  come  from?  I  said  we  have  resources. 
We  have,  one  of  which  is  our  Houses  of  the 
Good  Shepherd.  But  how  shall  we  operate 
these  benevolent  institutions  without  some 
one  to  do  the  work?  You  begin  to  see  what 
I  mean  ?  The  juvenile  court  makes  it  possible 
to  do  this." 

The  archbishop  looked  at  his  visitor 
sharply. 

"We  must  have  the  revenue  from  these 
institutions  to  meet  the  political  reform  de 
mands  which  are  coming  upon  us.  Besides, 
I  have  a  number  of  building  schemes  which 
must  be  completed.  There  is  St.  Mary's 
Cathedral,  which  will  be  the  pride  of  Holy 

26 


THE   EGGS   OF  THE  ASP 

Mother  when  finished.  I  am  depending  on 
these  places,  at  least  in  part,  for  the  funds 
to  accomplish  this.  May  all  the  saints  be 
propitious!  You  can  see  the  importance  of 
having  a  Catholic  for  this  office.  I  shall  see 
that  you  have  every  assistance." 

"It  will  not  be  difficult  to  arrange  that, 
Bishop.  Is  there  anything  else?" 

"There  is;  a  very  important  matter,  by 
the  way.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  there  is  a 
heretical  element  working  in  the  city.  Because 
of  this  opposition  to  the  true  church  we  must 
act  very  wisely.  Catholics  should  not  take  a 
position  w^hich  will  subject  them  to  open 
hostility,  when  they  can  accomplish  their 
ends  very  well  without  it.  I  am  informed 
that  a  Mrs.  Bolton  is  very  anxious  to  secure 
the  position  of  city  matron  and  general  pro 
bation  officer.  She  is  a  prominent  member 
of  a  large  sect.  That  is  very  good.  Let  her 
have  it.  In  that  way  we  can  shut  the  mouths 
of  the  Protestant  dogs  who  yelp  at  the  heels 
of  the  true  church.  I  shall  impress  her  with 
the  fact  that  she  holds  her  place  by  my 
consent. 

"There  is  this  other  matter  also:  we 
need  an  appropriation  for  our  House  of 
Good  Shepherd.  That  must  come  through 
the  Legislature.  See  that  the  candidates  are 
pledged  in  regard  to  this.  We  will  have  our 
own  men  in  the  seats  to  present  the  measure. 
I  am  done." 

Archbishop  Crastie  settled  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  gesture  of  finality.  The  politician 
collected  himself. 

27 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

''There  are  a  couple  of  things  which 
should  have  the  support  of  the  church  as 
well  as  these,  for  I  am  of  the  opinion  that 
both  are  vital  to  your  interests.  To  begin 
with,  there  is  a  strong  temperance  sentiment 
working.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  a 
prohibition  measure  will  be  up  at  the  next 
session.  I  think  this  might  affect  a  large 
Catholic  constituency.  Am  I  right?" 

"Most  assuredly.  Fully  two-thirds  of  the 
saloon  men  in  the  State  are  members  of  the 
church.  You  can  see  what  the  cutting  off 
of  that  revenue  would  mean  to  us.  That 
fanatical  movement  must  be  defeated  at  all 
costs." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  our  efforts  along 
that  line,  but  I  am  not  overconfident  of  the 
result.  The  measure  is  well  supported." 

' '  Then  be  ready  with  an  amendment  which 
will  take  the  limit  off  for  sacramental  pur 
poses.  If  necessary,  I  shall  array  the  entire 
Catholic  vote  against  it  and  force  the  con 
cession  by  way  of  the  recall." 

"Very  good.  My  other  proposition  is  the 
securing  of  certain  important  rights-of-way 
for  the  Light  &  Power  Company,  and  to  do 
this  there  must  be  some  special  legislating 
done.  I  wish  to  be  assured  of  your  support 
in  this  matter,  Bishop." 

"Have  no  doubt  of  that.  The  president 
of  that  company  is  a  communicant  of  St. 
Patrick's.  I  have  administered  the  sacrament 
to  him  myself.  We  have  already  discussed 
the  situation  in  the  presence  of  several  of  the 
stockholders.  As  you  know,  the  company 

28 


THE   EGGS   OF  THE  ASP 

controls  a  big  per  cent,  of  the  candidates  in 
the  State.  It  is  to  be  understood  that  they 
favor  our  appropriation  measure  and  oppose 
the  others  I  have  named.  I  hope  we  can 
co-operate  in  these  things. ' ' 

The  politician  rose,  glanced  at  his  watch 
from  habit,  and  went  out.  The  prelate  fol 
lowed  to  the  door,  closing  it  noiselessly.  The 
trade  had  been  made,  and  the  boss  was  on  his 
way  to  carry  out  his  part  of  it. 


29 


Ill 

THE  PLAYERS  AND  THEIR  PARTS 

ARCHBISHOP  CRASTIE  did  not  send 
•**  Mrs.  Bolton  a  written  invitation  to  call 
upon  him,  neither  did  he  communicate  with 
her  over  the  telephone;  nevertheless,  she 
came.  It  was  all  natural  enough.  She  was 
busy  preparing  a  way,  in  the  wilderness  of 
conflicting  interests  and  aspiring  candidates, 
to  the  desired  appointment.  Which  position 
was  not  to  be  despised,  inasmuch  as  it  prom 
ised  a  round  eighteen  hundred  dollars  per  an 
num  and  traveling  expenses. 

In  her  gyrations  she  inevitably  crossed 
the  trail  of  Boss  Baker  and  certain  prominent 
police  commissioners.  What  more  natural 
than  that  she  should  be  made  to  feel  in  a 
vague  way  that  it  would  be  well  to  see  His 
Grace,  the  Archbishop?  Priding  herself  on 
possessing  an  assurance  which  braved  all 
odds,  she  secured  the  prelate's  ear  over  the 
telephone  and  arranged  for  a  meeting. 

Nevertheless,  her  Protestant  heart  flut 
tered  with  fear  as  she  climbed  the  broad 
steps  and  touched  the  bell.  Stepping  back, 
she  glanced  at  the  church  which  stood  on  the 
corner.  Its  massive  walls  and  high,  narrow 
windows  suggested  ancient  dungeons  and 
Inquisitional  history.  Was  it  not  the  boast 

30 


THE   PLAYERS   AND   THEIR   PARTS 

of  Rome  that  she  made  no  changes?  She  had 
just  begun  to  contemplate  the  nunnery,  which 
stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  episcopal 
residence,  marking  with  a  feeling  of  dread 
the  twelve-foot  wall  which  shut  the  building 
in  and  the  undesired  world  out,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  she  was  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  Archbishop  Crastie. 

Before  she  could  begin  the  introduction 
which  she  had  prepared,  the  prelate  made  it 
unnecessary  by  addressing  her:  "I  suppose 
you  are  Mrs.  Bolton?"  Eeading  in  her  face 
that  he  was  correct,  he  led  the  way  into  his 
private  office.  The  archbishop  was  imposing 
ly  gowned,  and  from  his  neck  hung  a  gorgeous 
gold  cross.  He  motioned  her  to  a  seat,  taking 
one  himself.  Then  he  turned  his  deep-set 
eyes  upon  her. 

"You  wish  to  discuss  something  with  me, 
Mrs.  Bolton?" 

"If  I  might  take  a  few  minutes  of  your 
time. ' ' 

"Proceed." 

The  crustiness  of  his  manner  was  discon 
certing,  even  to  the  well-developed  self-pos 
session  of  Mrs.  Bolton. 

"Perhaps  you  are  aware  that  I  desire  the 
position  of  city  matron  and  general  probation 
officer?  It  is  regarding  this  matter  that  I 
called." 

"Why  do  you,  a  Protestant,  come  to  me? 
Are  not  your  own  ministers  able  to  arrange 
this  for  you?" 

Mrs.  Bolton  was  decidedly  embarrassed, 
as  her  flushed  cheeks  indicated. 

31 


THE   MOAN  OF  THE   TIBER 

"I — I — felt  that  you  might  be  interested 
in  such  matters;  that  is  why  I  came." 

The  archbishop  relaxed  in  a  sinister  smile. 

' 'And  right  you  are;  we  do  take  an  inter 
est  in  public  affairs  and  the  well-being  of  the 
community.  That  is  our  doctrine.  All  offices 
should  receive  their  tenure  from  the  altar. 
You  wish  my  influence  in  securing  this  posi 
tion.  I  might  be  of  assistance  to  you,  but 
first  we  must  understand  each  other.  You 
belong  to  a  very  prominent  sect.  You  may 
have  been,  in  this  day  of  enmity  to  Holy 
Church,  fed  on  the  poison  of  lies  and  vile 
slanders  against  the  characters  of  nuns  and 
priests.  The  true  and  blessed  church  of 
Christ  may  have  been  held  up  to  you  as  the 
sum  of  apostasy.  It  is  possible  you  have 
read  of  horror-chambers  and  tortures.  Per 
haps  you  have  believed  these  infamies.  All 
are  the  detestable  lies  of  the  enemies  of  true 
religion,  seeking  to  arouse  prejudice." 

The  prelate  changed  his  position  and  the 
movement  caused  the  gold  cross  about  his  neck 
to  glitter  brilliantly.  Mrs.  Bolton  was  finding 
it  hard  to  formulate  a  reply.  It  was  unneces 
sary,  for  the  archbishop  continued : 

"You  see,  the  church  desires  to  be  of  real 
assistance  in  the  government  of  the  city,  as 
well  as  the  State,  and  with  this  in  view  she 
has  made  herself  a  power  in  the  community, 
and,  I  might  add,  the  larger  life  of  the  nation. 
Of  this  we  are  justly  proud.  It  is  the  will  of 
God.  If  you  secure  this  position,  you  will 
find  it  necessary  to  co-operate  with  the  judge 
of  the  juvenile  court.  Understand?  Cases 

32 


THE   PLAYERS   AND   THEIR   PARTS 

come  under  the  inspection  of  the  police,  and 
these  are  reported  to  yon  and,  together  with 
the  jndge,  you  dispose  of  them.  Thanks  to 
the  church  founded  upon  the  blessed  Saint 
Peter,  there  is  a  place  where  these  outcasts 
can  go.  Destitute  of  maternal  care,  they  find 
the  bosom  of  a  better  mother  in  the  church. 
Left  without  a  father's  protection,  they  are 
given  the  defense  of  our  benevolent  institu 
tions.  Judges  recognize  this  and  are  glad  to 
avail  themselves  of  the  charity  we  offer.  Ah, 
madam,  the  church  has  been  slandered  most 
wickedly.  When  you  come  to  understand 
our  teachings  and  practices,  you  will  see  that 
all  you  have  heard  are  lies;  the  accursed  lies 
of  heretics!  Do  you  think  you  can  work 
harmoniously  with  the  juvenile  court?" 

"I  am  quite  clear  that  we  are  to  operate 
in  the  same  field,  and  it  is  my  purpose  to  be 
faithful  in  the  administration  of  my  office." 

The  veiled  nature  of  the  reply  seemed  to 
please  the  prelate.  His  face  was  drawn  into 
what  answered  for  a  smile  as  he  rose. 

1  'I  think  it  can  be  arranged,  and,  if  you 
give  satisfaction,  I  see  no  reason  why  you 
can  not  retain  the  position  indefinitely.  How 
ever,  you  must  see  that  there  is  no  discord  in 
the  performance  of  your  work.  Otherwise, 
there  would  have  to  be  an  adjustment. ' ' 

She  was  bowed  out  very  coldly.  On  her 
way  home  in  the  car,  she  had  time  to  go  over 
the  interview.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter 
if  the  church  was  interested?  Things  were 
just  as  they  were,  and  the  position  was  worth 
having.  Like  a  majority  of  her  Protestant 

3  33 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

neighbors,  Mrs.  Bolton  was  quite  ignorant  of 
the  complex  character  of  city  politics.  She 
desired  an  office,  and  she  understood  instinc 
tively  that  the  way  into  it  was  along  the  line 
she  was  following.  This  had  included  Arch 
bishop  Crastie.  So  far  as  the  conceit  of  the 
dignitary  was  concerned,  she  cared  little  for 
that.  His  church,  as  such,  meant  nothing  to 
her.  If  their  institutions  were  benevolent, 
well  and  good.  That  was  outside  of  her  con 
cern. 

The  elections  came,  and  the  results  were 
quite  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Bolton,  as  well  as 
the  archbishop,  for  the  inspection  measure 
was  defeated  by  a  handsome  majority,  follow 
ing  a  vindictive  speech  by  Representative 
Pillinger.  The  appropriation  for  the  House 
of  the  Good  Shepherd  was  duly  granted,  while 
the  temperance  measures  were  tabled  indefi 
nitely,  and  the  Light  &  Power  Company  were 
made  sure  of  their  franchises.  The  new  chief 
of  police  was  a  loyal  son  of  the  church  pre 
sided  over  by  Archbishop  Crastie,  and  Mrs. 
Bolton  was  duly  installed  in  the  coveted 
position.  The  actors  had  played  their  parts 
well.  Boss  Baker  congratulated  himself,  and 
thought  complacently  of  the  fat  roll  of  bills 
in  his  safety  deposit  box  at  the  First  National 
Bank. 


34 


IV 
THE  HOUSE  OF  TEARS 

TV/TARION  ALLISON  settled  down  to  the 
*•**•  dreary  routine  of  her  task,  which  con 
sisted  in  keeping  up  the  wretched  house 
which  she  was  compelled  to  call  home,  and 
making  things  as  comfortable  as  she  could 
for  her  father. 

For  a  few  weeks  after  his  wife's  death 
he  tried  to  master  his  appetite.  During  that 
time  he  found  employment,  and  his  wages 
supplied  the  home  with  modest  comforts.  But 
the  inevitable  relapse  came,  and  the  wavering 
hope  in  Marion's  heart  died  out.  Then  the 
responsibility  of  providing  the  things  needed 
settled  upon  her,  and  she  struggled  bravely 
to  meet  the  demands. 

Marion  was  visited  occasionally  by  Mrs. 
Holliday,  who  occupied  quarters  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  Her  manner  was  in  a  way  kind, 
though  Marion  was  conscious  of  an  uneasy 
feeling  in  her  presence.  At  such  times  the 
woman  took  occasion  to  laud  the  tenets  of 
her  faith  and  the  charitable  work  of  those  in 
charge  of  the  holy  houses.  Marion  listened 
without  special  interest.  Her  own  creed  was 
quite  clearly  denned,  along  with  a  very  pro 
nounced  belief  in  the  need  of  the  Reformation. 
In  these  she  remained  unmoved  by  the  appeals 

35 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

of  the  would-be  missionary,  little  dreaming  of 
the  net  which  was  being  spread  for  her,  and 
which  would  ensnare  her  life  in  its  meshes. 

One  evening  in  the  gathering  twilight  a 
sister  from  the  penal  convent  entered  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Holliday  and  talked  a  long  time 
very  earnestly.  The  following  morning,  Mrs. 
Bolton  was  called  before  the  juvenile  court 
and  informed  of  a  case  which  had  been  re 
ported.  The  party  was  in  great  poverty. 
Her  father  was  a  drunkard,  and  her  means 
of  support  such  that  the  matter  would  have 
to  be  looked  into.  Citizens  living  in  the  com 
munity  had  informed  the  judge  of  the  con 
ditions,  and  she  was  therefore  instructed  to 
appear  in  court  with  the  subject  at  once. 

True  to  the  manner  of  questionable 
actions,  Mrs.  Bolton  gave  Marion  no  satis 
faction  when  questioned  regarding  the  mean 
ing  of  her  call  to  the  juvenile  court.  What 
did  they  want  of  her?  Perhaps  her  father 
was  in  trouble  and  she  was  being  forced  into 
the  public  gaze.  As  is  the  way  of  one  who 
has  suffered  much,  she  accompanied  her  con 
ductor  in  silence.  It  was  something  connected 
with  the  thing  which  had  broken  her  mother's 
heart.  They  had  suffered  together,  and  she 
must  still  endure  it. 

Marion  was  surprised  to  find  the  room 
deserted,  save  for  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Hol 
liday.  Her  father  was  not  here.  What  did 
it  mean?  She  turned  toward  the  judge 
and  found  his  glance  fixed  upon  her.  He 
was  evidently  interested.  Marion  was 
motioned  to  a  seat.  The  probation  officer 

36 


THE   HOUSE   OF   TEARS 


remained  standing.  At  a  gesture  from  the 
judge,  Mrs.  Bolton  began  to  rehearse  the 
case.  She  had  investigated  on  her  own 
account;  then  she  had  talked  to  Mrs.  Holli- 
day,  who  lived  near.  Matters  were  in  bad 
condition.  They  were  not  as  they  should  be. 
Even  from  the  standpoint  of  the  proper,  there 
ought  to  be  a  change,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
inability  of  the  father  to  provide  for  his 
daughter.  The  man  was  a  notorious  drunk 
ard,  and  the  young  woman  should  have  pro 
tection.  This  was  confirmed  by  Mrs.  Holliday 
in  a  brief  statement. 

Marion  heard  all  this  in  speechless  aston 
ishment.  What  were  these  people  concocting 
against  her?  She  would  know.  A  dread  of 
that  august  thing  known  as  "contempt  of 
court"  almost  overcame  her,  yet  she  rose 
and  began  to  speak.  Instantly  the  face  of 
the  judge  clouded.  She  was  commanded  to 
be  silent.  In  such  cases  the  court  was  em 
powered  to  act.  His  office  had  been  created 
for  that  purpose.  She  must  submit  to  his 
judgment  in  the  matter.  He  planned  for  her 
good.  Provisions  had  been  made  for  those 
in  her  condition.  The  probation  officer  would 
please  do  her  duty.  The  aid  of  an  officer  was 
solicited  and  granted.  The  commitment  was 
to  be  indefinite.  If  it  could  be  shown  the 
court  in  the  future  that  conditions  were  what 
they  should  be,  there  might  be  opportunity 
for  a  new  adjustment.  The  case  was  dis 
missed  abruptly. 

Marion  would  have  renewed  her  demand 
for  an  explanation,  but  Mrs.  Bolton  prevented 

37 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

it  with  a  warning  that  further  resistance  to 
the  will  of  the  court  would  subject  her  to  con 
tempt,  and  that  she  would  be  compelled  to 
obey. 

As  they  descended  the  steps  of  the  court 
house  Marion  was  thinking  very  fast.  She 
found  it  impossible  to  bring  order  out  of  the 
chaos  into  which  her  thoughts  had  been 
thrown.  She  was  being  forced  away  from 
her  home  contrary  to  her  will.  Against  this 
she  rebelled.  An  officer  in  uniform  awaited 
them  on  the  sidewalk.  An  automobile  stood 
at  the  curb  in  throbbing  readiness.  Marion 
turned  upon  Mrs.  Bolton  with  another  demand 
for  an  explanation. 

"What  right  have  you  to  hale  people  to 
court  and  pass  sentence  against  them  when 
they  are  not  charged  with  a  transgression  of 
law?" 

"I  am  acting  in  the  line  of  my  duty.  You 
heard  the  decree  of  the  court.  That  is  final. 
Come  on ;  I  have  no  time  to  waste. ' ' 

The  officer  strode  forward. 

"Cut  that  out  and  move  along,"  he  com 
manded,  domineeringly,  pushing  the  resisting 
girl  toward  the  machine  and  slamming  the 
door  when  she  had  entered.  The  next  instant 
they  were  whirled  away,  whither  Marion 
knew  not. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  she  demand 
ed,  her  indignation  flaming. 

"To  an  institution  provided  for  those  in 
your  condition.  I  hope  you  will  make  no 
trouble,  but  obey  the  rules  and  do  what  you 
are  told.  You  will  find  that  the  better  way. 

38 


THE   HOUSE   OF   TEARS 


Some  girls  whom  we  commit  are  foolish 
enough  to  rebel,  and  they  suffer  much  incon 
venience  as  a  result." 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  committing 
individuals  against  their  wishes?" 

"To  be  sure.  That  is  our  business. 
Folks  are  usually  committed  against  their 
wishes.  The  city  has  intrusted  these  things 
to  us.  We  use  our  judgment  in  the  matter. 
It  so  happens  that  we  believe  you  would  be 
better  off  in  one  of  our  institutions  for 
awhile. ' ' 

Marion's  eyes  flamed.  With  a  quick  spring 
she  was  through  the  door  of  the  car  and  in 
the  act  of  leaping  to  the  road,  when  the  hand 
of  the  officer  gripped  her  arm  savagely,  caus 
ing  intense  pain. 

"Get  back  in  here,  you  d — d  heretic,"  he 
growled  through  shut  teeth. 

Finding  it  useless  to  struggle,  Marion  re 
signed  herself  to  her  fate.  Intently  she  pon 
dered  the  word  "heretic."  Why  had  this 
man  called  her  that?  Instinctively  she  asso 
ciated  his  brutality  with  the  term.  Then  she 
thought  of  George  Ainsley.  He  must  know 
what  had  become  of  her.  Her  silence  would 
cause  him  great  anxiety. 

"I  have  friends  who  must  be  told  where 
I  am.  I  must  send  letters  to  them,"  Marion 
ventured. 

The  chilly  smile  of  the  probation  officer 
was  accompanied  by  the  unfeeling  laugh  of 
the  policeman. 

"You  can  talk  that  over  with  those  in 
authority,"  Mrs.  Bolton  replied  very  suavely, 

39 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

while  the  patrolman  looked  at  Marion  in  a 
way  which  sent  the  hot  blood  to  her  cheeks 
in  a  protesting  flood. 

Just  then  the  car  came  to  a  standstill 
before  a  massive  iron  gate.  The  officer 
opened  the  door  and  commanded  Marion  to 
get  out.  She  obeyed,  followed  by  Mrs.  Bolton. 
They  were  before  a  stone  wall  some  ten 
feet  high.  A  subdued  moan,  which  Marion 
recognized  as  the  sound  of  machinery,  came 
to  her  ears.  Then  the  gate  opened  and  she 
was  forced  through.  It  was  closed  and  locked 
immediately.  Some  nuns  in  white  garb  came 
toward  her. 

"Where  am  I?"  Marion  demanded. 

"This  is  the  House  of  the  Good  Shep 
herd,"  one  of  the  women  replied. 

"Why  have  they  brought  me  to  this 
prison?"  Marion  questioned  indignantly. 

"This  is  a  place  for  such  as  you,"  the 
nun  answered. 

By  this  time  the  door  had  been  reached. 
It  opened  and  closed  behind  the  trembling 
girl.  She  was  immediately  conducted  into 
the  presence  of  the  stern-faced  mother 
superior.  At  sight  of  the  unfeeling  features 
all  the  indignation  and  sense  of  injustice 
which  burned  within  Marion's  finely  strung 
nature  found  voice  in  passionate  protest, 
during  which  the  compressed  lips  and  narrow 
ing  eyelids  of  Mother  Elizabeth  boded  ill  for 
the  unfortunate  girl. 

"You  are  a  Protestant,  the  child  of  a 
heretic,  and  you  manifest  their  accursed 
spirit.  Here  you  must  learn  obedience,  and 

40 


THE   HOUSE    OF   TEARS 


punishments  and  proper  discipline  will  bring 
you  to  it." 

At  this  Marion  gave  way  to  a  flood  of 
resentment  which  was  interrupted  by  a  sting 
ing  blow  on  the  lips,  administered  by  a  nun 
at  the  nod  of  the  superior,  who  then,  in  a 
voice  which  was  vibrant  with  anger,  com 
manded  that  the  cat-o'-nine  be  brought.  A 
nun  hastened  to  obey. 

"She  will  have  to  be  taught  her  lesson 
at  once.  St.  Frances,  see  that  this  stubborn 
ness  is  thoroughly  subdued."  The  superior 
then  stepped  back,  while  a  swarm  of  nuns 
overpowered  Marion. 

Stretched  over  a  couch,  with  most  of  her 
garments  removed,  the  lash  fell  with  horrible 
torture  upon  her  quivering  flesh.  The  pain 
caused  her  to  cry  out.  The  agony  was  fear 
ful.  Every  lash  left  a  long  purple  welt,  from 
which  the  blood  oozed  like  water  from  a 
sponge.  After  this  she  was  dragged,  almost 
fainting,  to  the  dungeon  under  the  stairs, 
where  she  was  thrown  on  the  cement  floor 
and  left  in  total  darkness.  There  in  the 
silence  she  lay,  racked  with  pain  and  dread. 
Her  wounds  brought  on  a  chill  and  she  shook 
as  if  in  an  ague.  Hours  passed.  At  last  she 
must  have  swooned,  for  when  she  regained 
consciousness  several  nuns  were  about  her. 
She  was  commanded  to  get  up.  When  she 
could  not  do  this  they  assisted  her  savagely. 
Almost  unable  to  stand,  she  was  dragged  to 
the  bathtub  and  washed.  Afterward,  a  nau 
seating  mixture  of  food  was  forced  upon  her. 
Then  she  was  told  to  kneel  and  kiss  the  floor 

41 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

in  the  presence  of  Mother  Elizabeth.  Again 
Marion  rebelled.  Then  she  was  returned  to 
the  bath  and  forced  under  cold  water.  Too 
much  exhausted  to  make  further  resistance, 
Marion  was  hurried  into  a  room  and  left. 
The  apartment  contained  a  couch  covered 
with  a  thin  mattress.  She  threw  herself  upon 
this  and  gave  way  to  weakness. 

The  next  morning  she  was  again  supplied 
with  coarse  food,  and,  though  faint  from 
hunger,  she  could  swallow  only  a  small  por 
tion  of  it.  Once  more  she  was  commanded 
to  kneel  and  kiss  the  floor  before  the  superior. 
Again  Marion  refused,  and  this  time  a  num 
ber  of  nuns  threw  themselves  upon  her  and 
forced  her  face  against  the  boards. 

''Take  her  to  the  laundry,"  Mother  Eliz 
abeth  commanded.  "She'll  find  it  will  pay 
to  observe  the  rules.  If  there  is  any  further 
trouble,  I'll  consult  Father  Black.  I  think 
he  may  be  able  to  provide  discipline  which 
will  bring  this  heret;  to  her  senses." 

Marion  was  suddenly  alive  to  her  situ 
ation.  She  had  been  taught  the  methods  of 
the  priesthood.  She  had  read  of  the  Inqui 
sition  and  its  horrors.  One  of  her  earliest 
recollections  was  the  picture  of  a  chamber  of 
tortures.  There  were  half  a  dozen  frocked 
priests,  who  were  hovering  about  a  victim 
whose  feet  were  being  slowly  roasted.  Near 
by  a  martyr  was  suspended  upon  pulleys,  his 
arms  twisted  from  their  sockets.  She  had 
often  wondered  if  this  could  be  true.  Later, 
when  she  grew  older,  it  had  been  her  habit 
to  study  the  faces  of  priests,  and  what  she 

42 


THE   HOUSE    OF   TEARS 


saw  in  their  shifting  glances  and  features 
convinced  her  that  they  were  given  to  deeds 
that  were  evil.  She  had  seen  Father  Black, 
and  she  shuddered  at  his  overhanging  brows 
and  sinister  expression.  By  every  instinct 
of  her  nature  she  had  read  him  for  a  degen 
erate.  What  would  be  her  fate  if  she  were 
given  into  his  hands'?  She  trembled  at  the 
thought.  Anything  but  that! 

Then  began  a  round  of  starvation,  mis 
treatment  and  wretchedness.  Marion  was 
taken  by  several  nuns  and  conducted  out  of 
the  nunnery.  Each  door  was  securely  locked 
after  they  passed  through  it.  Outside,  she 
found  herself  between  two  high  board  fences, 
spiked  with  iron  along  the  top  so  that  no 
one  could  climb  over.  A  score  of  yards  away 
was  a  dull  gray  building,  from  which  came 
the  purring  sound  she  had  heard  outside. 
Beyond  that  was  the  stone  wall  which  en 
closed  the  entire  plant  with  ten  feet  of 
solid  masonry.  Throwing  caution  to  the 
winds,  Marion  turned  upon  the  nuns. 

"If  this  place  is  a  benevolent  institution, 
why  have  you  surrounded  it  with  this  wall? 
Why  did  you  put  those  iron  palings  on  top 
of  the  fences?" 

The  only  answer  she  received  was  to  be 
handled  more  savagely  than  before.  At  the 
end  of  the  passage  they  came  to  a  door.  This, 
also,  was  locked.  A  nun  opened  it,  and 
Marion  was  thrust  through.  Inside  was  a 
second  door.  Here  the  nun  who  carried  the 
keys  turned  to  Marion  with  a  malicious 
expression. 

43 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

"You  will  understand  all  about  the  walls 
in  a  little  while  without  being  told.  See  that 
you  get  out  your  allotment,  or  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you.  Remember,  we  will  have  none 
of  your  heretic  manners  here." 

To  this  Marion  had  no  wish  to  reply, 
for  her  eyes  were  fixed  wonderingly  on  what 
she  saw  before  her.  Scores  of  small  girls 
were  bent  over  power-driven  machines,  mak 
ing  shirts.  Marion  noticed  their  wasted 
bodies  and  staring,  hopeless  eyes.  She  saw 
their  shrunken  shoulders  and  withered  hands. 
It  was  horrible!  Over  this  aggregation  of 
blighted  childhood  several  nuns  presided. 
They  were  moving  about,  urging  the  toilers 
to  greater  exertions.  Marion  knew  that  back 
of  the  nuns  and  the  machines  was  the  church, 
with  Father  Black,  and  all  like  him,  deep  in 
old  wine — and  worse.  The  story  of  the  Inqui 
sition  was  true,  after  all.  She  was  looking 
upon  it  in  modern  form  with  her  own  eyes. 

Passing  through  this  department,  they 
came  to  a  door,  also  locked.  Here  Marion 
was  forced  into  another  large  room,  where 
the  crash  of  more  than  fifty  machines  came 
to  her  ears.  At  each  one  a  girl  presided. 
She  saw  in  the  faces  of  these  toilers  the 
same  dejection  and  wordless  misery.  It  was 
evident  that  fearful  wrongs  were  being  per 
petrated  on  these  helpless  victims.  Marion 
wondered  how  many  had  been  committed  as 
she  had  been.  What  terrible  perversion  of 
law  and  justice  was  this  that  she,  a  Protes 
tant,  a  member  of  a  large  denomination,  could 
be  imprisoned  without  cause,  and  made  to 

44 


THE   HOUSE   OF  TEARS 


toil  for  this  so-called  church  institution  to  the 
enriching  of  the  priests  and  all  at  the  head 
of  the  hierarchy?  Hot  indignation  stirred  in 
her  soul.  She  would  defy  them,  and  at  the 
first  opportunity  escape  at  any  cost.  Then 
she  recalled  the  threat  of  the  superior  and 
quailed  before  what  it  promised.  Anything 
but  that !  God  help  her !  She  had  read  things 
in  Father  Black's  eyes  which  made  her 
remember. 

Marion  was  assigned  to  one  of  the  ma 
chines  in  the  laundry.  The  smell  of  foul 
steam  filled  her  lungs  with  a  choking  odor. 
Glancing  about,  she  saw  other  girls  at 
machines,  some  younger,  some  older  than 
herself.  One  brought  some  pieces  for  the 
mangle.  Marion  noticed  that  her  fingers  were 
gone.  Every  face  wore  an  expression  of 
hopelessness.  Nuns  moved  about  domineer 
ingly,  their  faces  set  in  a  feelingless  immo 
bility.  Marion  began  her  task,  having  first 
sworn  within  herself  that  she  would  not  sub 
mit  to  her  condition  beyond  the  first  oppor 
tunity  to  escape  from  it. 

At  noon  they  sat  down  to  food  which 
consisted  of  refuse  begged  from  the  restau 
rants  and  groceries  of  the  city.  It  was  dan 
gerous  from  decay  and  poison.  Marion 
studied  the  others.  They  were  wretchedly 
starved,  and  each  ate  with  the  instinct  of 
some  wild  creature  which  contends  for  its 
share  of  the  kill.  Some  were  shorn  of  their 
hair,  the  haggled  manner  in  which  it  had  been 
removed  indicating  that  it  was  done  as  a 
punishment.  Others  bore  marks  of  beatings. 

45 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

On  every  hand  there  was  a  cringing  obedience 
to  the  nuns,  who  administered  chastisement 
at  will.  Every  hour  the  horror  grew. 

Little  girls,  who  had  been  given  such 
heavy  tasks  that  they  could  not  accomplish 
them  in  the  time  demanded,  were  punished  by 
having  their  hands  tied  behind  them  and 
being  forced  to  kneel  before  the  image  of 
the  Virgin  for  long  periods  of  time.  The 
days  passed.  Marion  was  being  rapidly 
initiated  into  an  inferno  of  wretchedness  and 
tears  which  she  had  never  dreamed  existed. 
Always,  night  and  day,  there  was  the  scream 
of  anguished  girlhood  in  some  corner  of  the 
building;  always  some  one  was  receiving 
chastisement  at  the  hands  of  the  nuns.  Some 
with  enough  spirit  left  to  rebel  were  thrown 
into  the  dungeon  under  the  stairs,  where 
they  were  forced  to  endure  the  horror  of 
darkness  and  loneliness  for  even  a  week,  fed 
upon  bread  and  water.  Others  were  whipped 
unthinkably,  and  all  for  the  most  trivial  in 
fractions  of  the  rules,  or  a  failure  to  accom 
plish  the  tasks  assigned  them.  These  were 
often  so  great  that  twelve  hours  before  the 
machines  were  not  enough  to  accomplish  them. 
In  the  night  the  little  sufferers  cried  in  their 
sleep,  or  begged  piteously  for  mercy.  Some 
called  for  their  mothers  or  playmates.  These 
unconscious  complaints  were  promptly  hushed 
by  the  soft-gliding  nuns,  who  hovered  over 
the  tiny  slaves  like  spirits  of  ill-omen. 

With  every  opportunity  which  presented 
itself  Marion  studied  her  surroundings.  She 
noticed  that  trees  grew  close  to  the  back 

46 


THE   HOUSE   OF  TEARS 


wall.  If  she  could  escape  from  the  building, 
she  might  get  over  the  barrier  by  one  of 
these.  All  about  her  were  suffering  in  a 
variety  of  ways.  They  were  starved,  broken 
in  spirit,  whipped  and  driven  relentlessly  by 
the  gain-getters  of  the  institution,  who  in 
turn  were  driven  by  the  hierarchy.  Marion 
came  in  for  a  double  portion  of  abuse.  She 
was  constantly  reviled  for  being  a  Protestant 
and  her  burden  made  exceedingly  hard. 
Exasperated  beyond  all  endurance,  she  had 
rebelled,  only  to  be  subjected  to  the  most 
inhuman  cruelties.  For  days  she  languished 
in  the  dungeon,  suffering  the  horrors  of  the 
darkness,  and  feverish  from  the  effects  of 
the  lash,  which  had  torn  her  flesh  once  more. 
A  day  and  a  night  she  was  denied  water. 
Terrible  thirst  parched  her  lips  and  throat. 
Her  head  beat  as  if  to  burst.  At  last  she 
became  unconscious.  From  such  inquisitional 
experiences  she  was  taken  back  to  the  laundry 
and  compelled  to  work  extra  hours.  At  all 
costs  she  must  get  out  of  her  prison.  In  all 
this  no  kind  word  was  spoken,  either  to 
herself  or  the  others.  Marion  wept  much,  and 
her  heart  longed  for  George  Ainsley.  If  only 
he  knew  where  she  was  and  how  she  was 
suffering,  he  would  accomplish  her  release  at 
any  cost.  Even  in  her  wretchedness  his  love 
was  a  great  consolation.  There  was  this  one 
star  left  shining  in  her  darkness. 

Watching  her  chance,  she  found  oppor 
tunity  to  examine  a  certain  window  which 
opened  at  the  rear  of  the  sleeping  quarters. 
All  the  windows  were  barred,  and,  in  addition, 

47 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

there  was  a  steel  mesh  and  locked  shutters 
inside,  but  for  some  reason  these  had  been 
removed  temporarily  from  this  one  window, 
which  was  hidden  from  observation  by  an 
angle  in  the  wall.  Marion  knew  that  the 
place  would  be  secured  again  within  a  few 
hours. 

At  noon  she  speculated  on  the  distance 
from  the  window  to  the  ground.  It  would  be 
a  full  twenty-feet  drop.  This  would  endanger 
life  and  limbs,  yet  she  determined  to  risk  it. 
During  the  day  a  few  words  passed  between 
her  and  a  girl  who,  like  herself,  had  suffered 
much  because  she  had  resisted  the  nuns.  It 
was  agreed  that  they  would  take  the  leap 
together.  The  hour  following  the  noon  meal 
was  set  as  the  time  for  the  venture. 
Marion's  heart  beat  very  fast  as  she  rose 
from  the  table.  Her  companion's  expression 
indicated  that  she  was  ready.  Hurrying 
through  the  building,  they  passed  into  the 
quarters,  and,  without  more  than  glancing 
about,  they  climbed  upon  the  sill.  Waiting  a 
few  seconds  for  her  companion  to  make  the 
drop,  Marion  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
steps.  Glancing  back,  she  saw  two  nuns 
running  toward  her.  Leaning  out,  she 
glimpsed  her  companion  running  across  the 
yard.  Then,  with  a  gasp  of  fear,  Marion 
fell.  It  seemed  she  was  whirling  through 
space  endlessly.  Then  came  a  severe  wrench 
of  her  body,  with  a  keen  pain  in  the  spine 
and  a  sense  of  nausea.  Unable  to  rise,  she 
lay  upon  the  ground,  while  a  dread  of  coming 
tortures  filled  her  mind.  There  the  nuns 

48 


THE   HOUSE   OF   TEARS 


found  her  and  dragged  her  back.  Then  fol 
lowed  unmerciful  lashings  and  two  days  in 
the  dungeon,  after  her  fingers  had  been 
severely  beaten  with  the  edge  of  a  rule. 
Again  fever  made  its  appearance,  and  she 
was  taken  to  a  bed,  with  the  promise  that 
when  she  left  it  her  disciplining  would  be 
continued. 


49 


THE  BUGLES  OF  COURAGE 

GEORGE  AINSLEY  returned  to  college 
very  happy  in  the  vow  which  the  woman 
he  loved  had  made.  Life  held  much  for  him. 
He  entered  upon  his  tasks  with  resolution, 
because  every  effort  brought  closer  the  com 
ing  of  Marion  Allison  into  his  life.  He 
placed  her  picture  in  his  room  where  he 
could  lift  his  glance  to  it  at  any  time,  and 
the  fine  eyes,  with  their  cloudy  beauty, 
seemed  to  smile  him  encouragement. 

For  some  time  her  letters  arrived  regu 
larly,  then  they  ceased  abruptly.  For  awhile 
he  continued  to  write,  thinking  that  she  had 
been  unexpectedly  hindered  in  some  way. 
But,  when  a  month  passed  without  a  letter,  he 
grew  alarmed,  and  resolved  to  return  and 
investigate  the  strange  silence. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  Allison  home  he 
found  that  her  father  had  just  returned 
from  a  prolonged  debauch  and  was  unable 
to  give  any  account,  either  of  his  daughter 
or  himself.  Inquiry  among  the  neighbors 
revealed  nothing.  Mrs.  Holliday  was  very 
cold  in  her  manner  and  practically  closed  the 
door  in  his  face.  George  ascribed  the 
woman's  deportment  to  the  fact  that  he  had 
once  exposed  the  political  machinations  of 

50 


THE    BUGLES    OF   COURAGE 

her  church.  A  car  came  by  and  he  boarded 
it.  Once  in  the  city,  he  hurried  toward  the 
office  of  Mrs.  Bolton,  the  probation  officer 
and  general  city  matron.  He  found  the  lady 
very  busy!  When  he  insisted  upon  a  few 
minutes'  interview,  he  was  finally  admitted. 
She  received  him  with  a  stiff  professionalism 
which  irritated  him.  In  reply  to  his  request 
for  aid  in  discovering  the  whereabouts  of 
Marion  Allison,  he  was  told,  with  a  little 
change  of  tone,  that  she  had  been  committed 
to  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  While 
she  was  imparting  this  information,  the  pro 
bation  officer  studied  her  visitor  narrowly. 
She  was  looking  for  those  danger-signals 
which  corrupt  practice  always  considers 
worthy  of  attention. 

For  a  time  George  sat  speechless.  He 
was  trying  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  what 
he  had  heard.  Then  it  dawned  upon  his 
mind  clearly.  A  high  color  mounted  to  his 
temples.  Anger  was  kindling  in  him.  Then 
he  asked  a  question  with  terrific  directness : 

''Why  did  you  put  her  in  that  institu 
tion?" 

Mrs.  Bolton  moved  uneasily.  "It  was 
all  a  matter  of  lawful  procedure,  Mr.  Ainsley. 
I  understand  a  complaint  was  sent  in  by 
those  living  near.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case  except  to  bring  her  before  Judge 
Gatenby.  Witnesses  who  were  present  con 
vinced  the  court  that  she  should  be  provided 
for.  That  is  all  I  know  about  it.  She  was 
committed  something  over  a  month  ago.'* 

"Who  were  the  witnesses'?" 

51 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

Again  Mrs.  Bolton  showed  agitation. 
"Why,  I  don't  just  recall.  Mrs.  Holliday 
was  one." 

"I  see;  a  Roman  Catholic.  The  case  is 
becoming  clearer.  Judge  Gatenby  is  also 
a  member  of  that  church.  Who  took  Miss 
Allison  to  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd?" 
His  question  was  fearfully  direct. 

Mrs.  Bolton  hesitated.  "I  was  required 
to  be  with  her.  However,  an  officer  had 
charge  of  the  case." 

"Did  she  make  any  effort  to  escape?" 

"Once  she  tried  to  leap  from  the 
machine. ' ' 

"Who  prevented  her?" 

"The  officer.    It  would  have  been  fatal." 

George  continued  to  look  searchingly  at 
the  woman  for  some  time  without  speaking, 
then  he  said,  very  deliberately: 

"So  you,  a  prominent  member  of  a  large 
Protestant  church,  had  part  in  this  bit  of 
priestly  railroading,  did  you?  I  have  not  a 
doubt  but  you  received  your  appointment 
because  of  promises  made  to  Archbishop 
Crastie  and  his  satellites  before  election." 

It  was  Mrs.  Bolton 's  chance  to  play  the 
injured  dignity  role,  and  she  endeavored  to 
do  so. 

"I  refuse  to  take  an  insult  at  your  hands, 
Mr.  Ainsley.  It  is  understood  that  where  a 
man  fails  to  be  a  gentleman  he  should  be 
treated  as  something  else.  I  have  the  power 
to  place  you  under  arrest,  which  I  shall  do 
if  you  refuse  to  go  now. ' ' 

George  rose.    His  anger  awed  her.    What 

52 


THE   BUGLES   OF   COURAGE 

she  read  in  his  eyes  caused  her  to  forget  her 
police  powers. 

* '  Then,  proceed, ' '  he  began,  with  an  effort 
to  control  his  voice,  ''for  I  refuse  to  leave 
this  office  till  I  have  told  you  that  I  know 
you  to  be  a  tool  of  the  Roman  hierarchy. 
You  intimate  that  I  am  not  a  gentleman. 
What  claim  could  I  make  to  that  character 
were  I  to  permit  you  and  your  pirate  ring 
to  crush  the  woman  of  my  heart?  I  firmly 
believe  you  were  closeted  with  Archbishop 
Crastie  before  you  dared  even  to  hope  for 
this  office.  Judge  Gatenby  is  a  Catholic,  a 
tool  of  the  priests,  and  the  spirit  of  a  Jesuit 
is  in  him.  You  are  the  blind  which  makes 
it  possible  for  these  killers  of  children  to 
secure  their  victims  for  those  untaxed  slave- 
pens,  the  Houses  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  The 
f rocked  pirates  who  are  slaughtering  these 
helpless  creatures  are  hiding  in  your  Protes 
tant  shadow.  You  are  kept  in  the  foreground 
so  the  opponents  of  romanism  will  be  lulled 
to  sleep.  You  threaten  me  with  arrest.  I 
defy  you.  More,  I  serve  notice  that  you  shall 
stand  exposed  before  an  aroused  public.  The 
time  has  come  when  this  outrage  against 
freedom  must  stop.  I  shall  spoil  your  game 
of  graft  and  greed." 

Mrs.  Bolton  had  risen,  and  stood,  very 
white  and  silent  before  her  visitor,  whose 
blazing  eyes  held  her  speechless,  while  his 
words  frightened  her.  Subconsciously,  she 
was  asking  herself  what  this  man  could  do. 
The  dread  of  the  guilty  was  upon  her — the 
fear  of  exposure.  When  his  quick  steps  had 

53 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

died  out  in  the  hall,  she  sat  down  and  tried 
to  collect  herself.  All  bad  systems  had  been 
compelled  to  submit  to  public  scrutiny,  sooner 
or  later,  and  it  might  be  that  such  was  at 
hand  for  the  methods  by  which  the  Catholic 
Church  secured  laborers  for  the  Houses  of 
the  Good  Shepherd.  Something  must  be 
done  to  head  this  off.  She  took  up  the  'phone 
and  called  a  number.  A  hurried  conversation 
with  Archbishop  Crastie  followed,  the  replies 
of  Mrs.  Bolton  indicating  that  he  was  asking 
many  questions.  Three  minutes  after  the 
probation  officer  had  hung  up,  the  prelate 
was  in  communication  with  Mother  Elizabeth 
at  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  The 
courage  of  one  man  had  startled  the  sleeping 
dragons,  and  the  machinery  of  falsehood  and 
evasion  was  set  in  motion. 

Once  in  the  street,  George  realized  that 
he  had  spoken  words  which  it  would  be  most 
difficult  to  follow  out.  He  was  aware  that 
nations  had  not  been  able  to  dethrone  the 
institution  against  wrhich  he  was  about  to 
set  himself.  A  sense  of  helplessness  came 
over  him.  Obeying  an  impulse,  he  turned 
into  a  side  street  and  made  his  way  toward 
the  residence  of  Marion's  pastor.  The  house 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  building 
which  lifted  an  imposing  steeple  high  above 
the  city.  The  minister  received  him  in  a 
very  affable  manner,  ushering  him  into  a 
cool  parlor,  well  furnished  with  deep,  restful 
chairs.  George  shattered  the  expectation  of 
a  matrimonial  fee  which  he  saw  in  the 
pastor's  face: 

54 


THE   BUGLES   OF  COURAGE 

"I  am  not  here  to  arrange  for  marriage," 
he  began,  with  spirit.  "Rather,  I  came  to 
tell  you  that  the  woman  to  whom  I  have  made 
my  vow  has  been  railroaded  into  a  House  of 
the  Good  Shepherd,  and  I  am  here  to  ask 
your  aid  in  an  effort  to  release  her."  The 
minister  blanched  with  apprehension.  George 
continued:  "I  was  at  school  doing  post 
graduate  work  in  the  study  of  law,  and  in 
my  absence  Miss  Allison  was  imprisoned  in 
that  institution  against  her  will,  and  for  no 
cause  whatever.  Her  father  is  a  man  of  dis 
sipated  habits,  as  you  doubtless  know,  and 
this  gave  the  priestly  thieves  who  run  that 
slave-pen  their  chance.  Not  hearing  from 
her,  I  returned  to  investigate.  Your  city 
probation  officer  has  just  told  me  where  she 
is.  Now,  I  am  here  to  ask  you,  her  pastor, 
what  you  are  willing  to  do  to  help  get  her 
out." 

The  minister  winced  under  the  question. 
"It  is  too  bad,  Mr.  Ainsley,  but,  really,  I  do 
not  see  that  I  am  in  a  position  to  take  the 
matter  up  just  now.  No  doubt,  the  commit 
ment  was  according  to  law.  Such  cases  are 
to  be  regretted  very  much." 

"But,  I  say,  you  are  in  a  position  to  do 
a  great  deal,  and  right  away,  if  you  will," 
George  countered,  his  words  carrying  a  chal 
lenge.  The  minister  flushed. 

"Please  state  in  what  way." 

"You  are  not  limited  to  one  thing;  there 
are  many  ways  to  strike.  But,  first,  go 
before  your  congregation  next  Sundav,  hav 
ing  announced  your  subject,  and  expose  this 

55 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

ghastly  system  of  robbery  and  imprisonment 
without  the  warrant  of  law  or  justice.  Ex 
pose  it,  man,  and  show  that  the  Catholic 
Church  is  reaping  untold  thousands  of  dol 
lars  out  of  the  flesh  and  blood  of  these  help 
less  victims  of  their  diabolical  greed.  Tell 
the  people  how  they  are  starved  and  abused. 
Do  that,  and  then  call  your  fellow-ministers 
together  and  tell  them  that  one  of  your  mem 
bers  has  been  imprisoned  in  this  terrible 
place,  and  ask  them  to  back  you  in  an  effort 
to  take  her  out.  Will  you  do  that?" 

The  pastor  moved  nervously.  "You  ask 
an  impossible  thing,  Mr.  Ainsley.  You  never 
have  been  pastor  of  a  large  city  church,  and 
have  no  idea  of  the  conflicting  interests  which 
demand  one's  tact  and  judgment.  To  do 
as  you  request  would  make  a  demand  for 
my  resignation  a  certainty." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  there  are  business 
interests  to  be  considered.  My  official  board 
is  composed  largely  of  men  engaged  in  mer 
cantile  enterprises.  If  I  should  speak  on 
this  subject,  boycott  from  the  Catholic 
Church  would  follow  immediately,  and  the 
whole  thing  would  react  on  me.  Those  men 
would  utterly  refuse  to  permit  such  a  subject 
to  be  discussed  in  this  church." 

"You  confess,  then,  that  you  are  com 
pelled  to  submit  to  the  dictates  of  this 
dragonish  mammon?" 

"You  put  it  a  little  strong,  Mr.  Ainsley." 

"I'll  put  it  stronger  than  that.  You  have 
confessed  that  you  are  a  hireling  and  a  time- 

56 


THE   BUGLES   OF   COURAGE 

server.  The  fear  which  prevents  you  from 
telling  the  truth  in  this  case  keeps  you  from 
telling  it  in  others.  Had  you  the  courage 
to  face  evil  of  another  nature  you  would  be 
compelled  to  face  this  one.  The  fact  that 
you  dare  not  touch  it  is  evidence  that  you 
take  the  same  attitude  toward  other  crimes 
against  humanity.  You  and  your  official 
board  are  as  guilty  as  Archbishop  Crastie. 
Why?  Because  he,  to  fill  his  thieving  purse, 
manipulates  city  politics,  puts  judges  on  the 
bench  and  railroads  hundreds  of  motherless 
children  into  his  slave-pens.  This  he  does 
for  money.  Very  well.  You  and  your  official 
board  consent  that  this  infamy  shall  continue 
for  the  same  reason.  You  are  pastor  of 
this  great  church.  You  are  supposed  to  tell 
the  truth.  But,  because  of  your  salary  and 
the  business  interests  of  your  members,  you 
dare  not  do  so.  How  much  better  are  you 
than  Archbishop  Crastie  ?  He  steals  girls 
that  he  may  make  money.  You,  and  all  min 
isters  like  you,  permit  him  to  do  so  for  the 
same  reason.  I  put  it  where  you  can  see  it. 
How  do  you  like  it?" 

"Well  enough  to  refuse  to  permit  you  to 
continue  to  insult  me,"  the  pastor  replied, 
rising,  flushed  and  agitated.  George  got 
up  also. 

"Just  forget  that,  please.  If  I  have 
insulted  you  by  enlarging  on  your  confession, 
how  about  the  admission?  You  have  said 
you  dare  not  bring  this  question  into  your 
pulpit.  I  add  that,  such  being  the  case,  you 
are  unfit  to  bring  any  subject  into  your 

57 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

pulpit.  Here  is  one  of  your  own  members 
imprisoned  in  a  Roman  horror-prison,  and 
yet  you  dare  not  refer  to  it!  This  same 
cowardice  keeps  your  mouth  shut  on  every 
other  unpopular  measure,  I  am  sure  of  that. 
What  is  the  agony  and  motherless  weeping 
of  those  little  victims  over  in  that  Catholic 
hell  to  you?  What  do  you  care  that  young 
women  are  driven  like  slaves  at  the  lash's 
end,  that  they  are  the  helpless  pawns  of 
priestly  abuse,  and  crushed  under  the  befoul 
ing  touch  cT  that  diabolical  system?  How  is 
it  that  you  do  not  know  that  hundreds  are 
kidnapped  into  those  institutions  without 
even  a.  show  of  law?  More,  that  the  whole 
juvenile  frame-up  is  a  Romish  game  to  get 
unpaid  labor,  and  the  children  of  Protestants, 
where  they  can  force  them  to  kneel  before 
their  images  and  crosses?  Was  Miss  Allison 
in  need?  No.  If  she  had  been,  it  was  the 
duty  of  this  church  to  change  her  condition. 
Some  of  that  sacred  business  interest  of 
which  you  speak  would  come  in  well  in  such 
a  case.  How  did  it  happen?  Simply  through 
a  Catholic  neighbor,  assisted  by  that  Protes 
tant  tool  of  Papal  corruption,  Mrs.  Bolton, 
who  is  also  a  member  of  your  church.  But 
I  serve  notice  that  I  will  give  it  to  the  public. 
I  will  lay  bare  the  whole  system,  and  the 
criminal  indifference  of  Protestant  ministers 
and  laymen,  and  it  will  take  more  than  a 
bowling-alley  membership  and  a  patented 
smile  to  pass  you  when  I  do." 

Without  giving  the  minister  a  chance  to 
reply,  George  left  the  room.    He  was  burn- 

58 


THE   BUGLES   OF   COURAGE 

ing  with  indignation.  The  policy  of  the  man 
had  disgusted  him.  It  was  very  plain  why 
the  hierarchy  was  so  bold  in  its  methods. 
When  Protestants  should  awake  and  present 
a  solid  front,  such  places  as  the  House  of  the 
Good  Shepherd  would  be  impossible. 

In  the  street,  the  old  feeling  of  insuffi 
ciency  came  back  to  him.  The  city  was  so 
large  and  complicated.  How  could  he  snap 
the  threads  which  held  his  beloved  in  such 
an  evil  net?  "Where  should  he  begin?  Hot 
with  resentment  against  the  criminal  prac 
tices  of  the  church  which  had  laid  its  un 
washed  hands  on  the  woman  he  loved,  he 
hailed  a  cab  and  gave  orders  to  be  driven 
to  Archbishop  Crastie's  residence. 

The  prelate  himself  opened  the  door 
warily,  and  stood  peering  at  his  visitor  with 
crafty  eyes  which  glittered  under  shaggy 
brows.  George  pushed  the  door  wider  and 
entered. 

"I  came  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  ignoring 
the  priest's  effort  to  keep  him  out. 

"I  have  no  time — I  have  no  time  to  talk 
to  you,"  the  Jesuit  objected,  moving  back 
nervously. 

"You'll  talk,  just  the  same,"  George  re 
plied,  his  indignation  taking  on  a  deeper 
heat  in  the  presence  of  the  man  who  repre 
sented  the  system  which  had  brought  such 
wretchedness  upon  him. 

The  archbishop  went  toward  the  'phone, 
but  George  stopped  him. 

"None  of  that.  You  are  not  dealing  with 
a  defenseless  woman  now.  Come  any  of 

59 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

your  inquisitional  tricks,  and  I'll  shake  yon 
like  a  rat." 

The  prelate  backed  into  a  side  room,  and 
placed  a  table  between  them.  George  leaned 
over  it  and  fixed  his  glance  on  the  face  of 
the  agitated  dignitary,  who  sank  into  a  chair. 

"You  are  the  head  of  the  Catholic  Church 
in  this  part  of  the  country,  are  you  not?" 

"I  am,  sir." 

"Then,  you  are  the  chief  slave-master 
over  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd  in  this 
city?" 

The  archbishop  moved  uneasily,  a  mali 
cious  light  coming  into  his  eyes.  "Dare  you 
speak  so  to  God's  minister1?  The  institution 
is  supported  by  the  best  people,  and  upheld 
by  the  State.  Did  not  the  Legislature  give 
it  an  appropriation?  We  care  for  the  home 
less  and  reform  the  wayward.  The  blessed 
Saint  Anna  is  the  patron  of  the  institution." 

"I'll  listen  to  none  of  your  hypocritical 
mouthings  about  saints.  What  I  want  to 
know  is,  why  you  put  Marion  Allison  in  that 
place.  Had  she  broken  any  law?  And,  if 
she  had,  what  right  have  you  to  the  persons 
and  toil  of  those  under  civil  sentence?" 

"Ask  the  court  about  that;  I  know  noth 
ing  of  the  matter." 

"To  be  sure,  your  slaves  are  too  many 
for  your  memory,  but,  yet,  you  are  the  head 
criminal  in  this  whole  thieving  scheme.  Sold 
body  and  soul  to  greed  and  love  of  power, 
you  descend  to  the  wallows  of  every  infamy 
that  you  may  realize  your  diabolical  plans. 
The  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd  is  a  prison, 

60 


THE    BUGLES   OF   COURAGE 

a  slave-pen,  and  all  that  is  debasing  and 
immoral  in  one.  There  you  crush  and  blight 
the  bodies  and  minds  and  souls  of  children, 
chaining  them  to  your  machines  by  laws 
which  you  have  created.  What  is  it  to  you 
and  your  bibulous  associates  that  the  eyes 
of  your  victims  grow  lack-luster  and  their 
chests  fall  in?  What  do  you  care  that  they 
weep  for  their  mothers  and  are  denied  every 
childish  joy?  Scores  of  them  are  there, 
railroaded  into  your  mill  of  greed  because 
they  were  helpless.  Through  your  tool,  Judge 
Gatenby,  and  that  Protestant  hypocrite,  Mrs. 
Bolton,  you  keep  your  machines  going  with 
unpaid  toil.  Look  at  the  walls  which  shut 
in  your  commercial  hell !  See  the  barred  and 
locked  windows.  Behold  your  fences  bristling 
with  spikes.  All  of  which  bear  witness  to 
the  monstrous  infamy  which  you  are  prac 
ticing.  There  you  coin  the  blood  of  your 
victims  into  silver  and  gold.  With  your 
church  on  such  a  foundation,  and  your  gar 
ments  clotted  with  the  blood  of  these  inno 
cents,  you  dare  lift  up  your  befouled  faces 
to  a  holy  God  and  offer  your  wine  slops  and 
wafer  deities  and  call  it  religion." 

The  prelate,  red-faced,  and  stammering 
with  wrath,  rose  to  protest,  gesticulating 
wildly. 

1  'Sit  down!"  George  commanded,  and  the 
bishop  obeyed,  impelled  by  the  young  man's 
determination.  "I  am  not  through  yet.  You 
tell  me  these  commitments  are  by  way  of  the 
court.  But  you  and  your  church  made  the 
court  by  which  they  are  committed.  Judge 

61 


THE    MOAN    OF    THE    TIBER 

Gatenby  is  a  Catholic.  You  put  him  on  the 
bench  that  you  might  be  able  to  railroad 
these  helpless  ones  into  your  prison-pens. 
Then,  to  hide  your  craft  and  keep  the  'here 
tics'  quiet,  you  made  Mrs.  Bolton  probation 
officer.  In  this  way  you  pull  the  fleece  over 
the  eyes  of  Protestants,  and  your  steal  comes 
easy.  To  be  sure,  any  one  who  would  sell  an 
indulgence  would  sell  a  girl. 

"And  into  Avhose  hands  are  these  forgot 
ten  ones  committed?  Why,  those  who  are  as 
lost  to  pity  as  yourself.  You  crush  these  vic 
tims  of  your  avarice.  You  break  their  spirits ; 
you  dwarf  and  weaken  their  minds.  You  plan 
deliberately  to  do  this  because  you  seek  to 
produce  an  element  fit  only  for  your  prison- 
slavery.  They  must  be  blighted  and  degraded 
in  order  to  be  satisfactory  to  you. 

"You  have  debauched  the  public  con 
science.  Your  apostate  church  is  the  bul 
wark  of  the  saloon  business  in  the  State. 
A  large  proportion  of  the  keepers  of  resorts 
and  dives  are  Catholics.  Your  members  are 
the  chief  drunkard-makers  of  the  city.  When 
you  have  ruined  the  homes  of  the  drinkers 
and  beggared  their  children,  then,  like  vul 
tures  swooping  to  the  prey,  you  take  these 
ruined  ones  in  your  hellish  net  and  mangle 
them  in  your  sweatshops. 

"And  over  all  this  unspeakable  wicked 
ness  you  spread  the  cloak  of  what  you  call 
religion.  With  the  moan  of  these  bruised 
ones  going  up  to  a  God  of  pity,  you  con 
tinue  saying  masses  for  souls  in  a  purga 
tory  which  does  not  exist.  Priests  who  are 

62 


THE    BUGLES   OF   COURAGE 

wine-drinkers  conduct  your  services,  and 
you  disgrace  the  very  name  of  religion  by 
teaching  that  God  will  be  pleased  with  you, 
in  spite  of  these  practices.  In  your  Catholic 
saloons  the  creatures  of  passion  are  created 
and  trained.  Then,  you  take  this  product  of 
your  system  and  make  them  slaves  in  your 
sweatshops,  and,  to  cover  your  wickedness, 
you  call  it  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd. 
But  where  does  the  Good  Shepherd  appear? 
Is  he  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  forcing 
tender  girlhood  to  labor  long  and  in  the 
crushing  of  helpless  childhood? 

''And  so  are  all  your  abominations  con 
ducted.  Built  upon  vice  and  superstition, 
your  nunneries  are  not  strangers  to  immo 
rality,  your  own  writers  being  witness;  your 
slave-pens  open  sores  of  cruelty  and  injus 
tice;  the  State  officers  bought  and  sold  by 
you,  and  every  ideal  of  decent  government 
outraged  by  your  corrupt  practices,  you  still 
creep  about  your  altars  among  your  mean 
ingless  candles,  muttering  your  gibberish  and 
becoming,  if  possible,  ever  more  heathen. 
Over  all  this  crime  and  foolishness  you  croak 
your  'blesseds'  and  'holy  saints'  this  and 
that,  as  if  God  could  be  fooled  by  such 
hypocrisy. 

"Into  your  slave-pens  you  have  rail 
roaded  Marion  Allison.  Her  father  was 
made  a  drunkard  in  Catholic  saloons.  Now 
you  reach  out  your  serpent  coils  and  take 
in  this  innocent  victim  of  your  system.  You 
plan  to  coin  her  body  into  money.  But  I  am 
here  to  tell  you  that  yon  will  not.  Take  my 

63 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

advice  and  send  her  to  her  home  immediately. 
For  once  you  have  taken  the  wrong  person 
in  your  net.  Whatever  the  cost,  she  comes 
out.  Understand?"  --.,— — 

The  archbishop  was  shaking  with  rage, 
his  features  passing  through  a  kaleidoscope 
of  vindictive  expressions.  His  eyes  glittered 
savagely,  but  the  terrible  anger  of  the  man 
.who  towered  above  him  kept  him  silent. 

"One  thing  more  before  I  go.  Your 
life  shows  in  your  face.  There  I  see  cun 
ning  and  cruelty.  You  have  every  feature 
of  a  degenerate.  You  are  given  to  believ 
ing  the  ridiculous  and  absurd.  You  may 
deny  that  your  church  has  the  truth  told 
about  it;  continue  to  denounce  those  who 
point  out  your  absurdities  and  wickedness, 
but  one  thing  you  can't  avoid  is  the  fact  that 
all  you  are  is  plainly  written  in  your  counte 
nance.  ' ' 

Realizing  that  he  was  almost  mastered 
with  a  desire  to  strangle  the  prelate,  George 
left  abruptly.  When  he  had  walked  half  a 
dozen  blocks,  he  began  to  see  that  his  visit 
had  accomplished  him  nothing  beyond  afford 
ing  an  opportunity  to  tell  the  priest  what 
he  thought  of  him  and  his  church.  After 
all,  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  stayed 
away.  He  knew  the  archbishop  would  stop 
at  nothing  in  his  desire  for  revenge,  and  that 
this  would  fall  upon  Marion  Allison  as  well 
as  himself. 

He  paused  on  a  corner  to  think.  Then, 
obeying  something  which  suggested  itself  to 
him,  he  hurried  in  the  direction  of  the  law 

64 


THE   BUGLES   OF  COURAGE 

firm  of  Huston  &  Coruthers.  He  knew  these 
men.  They  would  be  interested  in  his  case. 
An  hour  later,  when  he  stepped  from  the 
elevator,  there  was  a  new  light  in  his  face, 
and  he  walked  with  a  determined  swing. 


VI 
THE  WINGS  OF  LOVE 

WHEN  he  had  time  to  think  it  over, 
George  became  satisfied  that  any  proc 
ess  by  law  to  obtain  the  release  of  Marion 
Allison  would  be  long  at  best,  and,  after  all, 
very  uncertain.  He  recalled  how  thoroughly 
the  hierarchy  had  manipulated  the  judiciary 
for  their  interests,  and  that  the  consideration 
of  his  case  could  be  easily  deferred  indefi 
nitely. 

Once  more  he  acted  upon  impulse.  He 
was  young.  The  blood  ran  warm  in  his 
veins.  He  was  fighting  for  her  he  loved. 
He  had  every  assurance  that  his  lawyers 
would  do  all  they  could,  but  he  was  impa 
tient.  He  had  reason  to  know  that  Marion 
would  be  in  great  danger  and  subject  to  fear 
ful  cruelties  at  the  hands  of  those  who  were 
crushing  her.  He  must  act  at  once.  Come 
what  might,  he  would  save  her  or  give  his 
life  in  the  attempt. 

He  was  in  the  act  of  going  out  when  the 
postman  handed  him  a  letter.  Its  contents 
proved  to  be  startling  enough.  The  writer 
had  escaped  from  the  House  of  the  Good 
Shepherd.  Marion  Allison  had  attempted 
the  same  thing  and  failed.  She  had  been 
instructed  to  write  him  in  case  there  was  a 

66 


THE    WINGS    OF    LOVE 


miscarriage  of  their  plans.  She  had  seen 
her  companion  on  the  ground,  unable  to  rise, 
and  she  knew  she  had  been  taken  back  into 
the  convent.  The  epistle  had  been  forwarded 
from  his  school  address.  Thrusting  the  mis 
sive  into  his  pocket,  he  called  a  taxicab,  and 
gave  directions  to  drive  to  a  certain  address 
with  all  speed. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  was  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  girl  perhaps  sixteen  years  of  age. 
Her  eyes  were  haunted  with  an  expression 
of  fear,  and  she  limped  as  a  result  of  her 
drop  from  the  window.  What  followed  bris 
tled  with  importance.  First,  George  learned 
that  certain  patriotic  people  were  highly 
Indignant  over  what  she  had  revealed  regard 
ing  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  He 
took  down  these  names.  Then  he  drew  a 
careful  plan  of  the  institution,  according  to 
her  description.  After  this  an  hour  was 
spent  in  visiting  certain  numbers.  Plans 
were  laid  for  a  secret  meeting  that  night. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  invited  ones  were  all 
present.  George  stated  his  case  and  received 
the  heart}'  sympathy  of  each  one.  Great 
indignation  was  expressed.  Something  must 
be  done.  The  visit  to  Archbishop  Crastie 
was  voted  a  mistake.  The  prelate  would  act 
immediately.  George  saw  it  in  the  same 
light,  now  that  he  had  thought  it  over.  Then 
followed  plans.  These  men  were  determined. 
They  were  not  alone.  There  was  an  organ 
ization  in  the  city  which  took  just  such  cases 
as  this  in  hand.  These  intolerable  doings  of 
Romanism  must  be  stopped. 

67 


THE    MOAN    OF    THE    TIBER 

As  the  midnight  hour  approached,  ten 
men  and  a  girl  stole  away  through  the  dark 
ness.  Following  secret  ways,  they  came  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  House  of  the  Good 
Shepherd.  "While  the  rest  remained  hidden, 
George  and  the  girl,  with  one  of  the  men, 
crept  up  and  reconnoitered,  following  the 
line  of  the  walls  and  getting  the  location  of 
the  entrances.  Then  they  rejoined  their 
companions. 

Noiseless  as  wraiths,  they  circled  the 
walls  and  cut  the  telephone  wires.  Half  of 
the  men  were  then  put  on  guard  outside,  and 
the  others,  with  George,  entered  by  means  of 
ladders.  The  five  men  drew  together  and 
discussed  the  next  move.  They  must  act  at 
once.  Going  to  the  door,  George  knocked 
very  loudly.  This  was  repeated  several 
times.  Then  came  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the 
lock,  and  the  next  instant  a  nun  stood  before 
them.  As  she  showed  no  surprise,  it  was 
manifest  that  she  was  accustomed  to  night 
committals.  This  was  a  significant  revela 
tion.  The  men  entered  at  once.  The  woman 
discovered  the  irregularity  too  late. 

"We  are  here  to  get  Marion  Allison. 
Lead  us  to  her  at  once!"  The  nun  hesitated. 
"You  must  obey.  Come,  we  mean  business, 
and  we  have  no  time  to  lose." 

"Mother  of  God!  Who  are  you?"  she 
cried,  in  frightened  tones. 

"Never  mind  about  the  mother  of  God; 
it's  another  woman,  Marion  Allison,  we  are 
after.  Take  us  to  her  immediately.  We 
know  she  is  here." 

68 


THE   WINGS   OF   LOVE 


"There  is  no  such  person  in  this  house. 
I  do  not  know  the  name." 

"None  of  that.  The  records  show  sho 
is  here.  Lead  on."  One  of  the  men  took  the 
woman  by  the  arm  and  compelled  her  to 
proceed. 

At  that  instant  a  group  of  nuns  appeared. 
They  were  startled  to  frightened  exclama 
tions  when  they  saw  the  men,  and  marked 
their  determined  air.  All  protested  that 
Marion  Allison  was  not  in  the  building.  She 
had  been  removed  to  another  place. 

Believing  this  to  be  false,  the  nuns  were 
put  into  a  room  and  a  guard  set  over  them. 
Then  began  a  thorough  search  of  the  prem 
ises.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  they  found  no 
trace  of  the  one  they  sought.  Every  minute 
the  possibility  of  discovery  increased.  Full 
of  anxiety,  George  led  his  followers  to  the 
basement  once  more.  This  time  they  dis 
covered  the  dungeon  under  the  stairs,  in 
which  the  shrunken  body  of  a  little  girl  lay, 
the  sufferer  moaning  with  fright  and  pain. 
She  was  removed  immediately.  As  they 
returned  through  a  dark  passage,  a  nun 
glided  out  of  a  side  room  and  approached 
George,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Will  you  protect  me  if  I  speak?  Hist! 
My  life  will  be  in  danger!  The  girl  you  seek 
is  not  here.  She  was  removed  by  order  of 
the  archbishop." 

"Is  that  not  a  Catholic  lie  to  protect  your 
institution?  You  are  trained  to  do  such 
things  when  it  will  shield  your  church." 

"You  are  right,  we  are  taught  to  falsify; 

69 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

but  I  am  speaking  the  truth.     She  is  gone." 

"Why  do  you,  a  nun,  tell  me  this?" 
George  asked. 

"Because  I  am  tired  of  it  all;  tired  of 
cruelty  and  injustice.  Surely  you  will  be 
sufficiently  glad  of  my  aid  to  protect  me." 

"You  shall  not  be  harmed,"  he  assured 
her. 

"If  Marion  Allison  is  not  here,  then, 
where  is  she?" 

The  nun  named  another  House  of  the 
Good  Shepherd  miles  distant.  Something 
had  already  alarmed  the  archbishop,  and  he 
had  ordered  the  transfer. 

George  condemned  himself  for  his  unwise 
conduct  in  revealing  his  purpose  to  the 
prelate.  Yet,  perhaps  the  woman  was  deceiv 
ing  him.  He  would  be  sure.  Another  half- 
hour  was  spent  in  searching,  but  no  trace  of 
Marion  could  be  found.  Then  he  questioned 
certain  of  the  inmates,  who  testified  that  she 
had  not  been  present  at  the  last  two  meals. 
There  was  a  way  to  test  the  matter.  If  the 
nun  went  with  them  voluntarily,  he  would 
believe  she  told  the  truth;  if  not,  he  would 
continue  his  search.  His  confidence  was 
strengthened  when  he  saw  her  preparing  to 
acompany  them.  Outside,  she  repeated  her 
former  statement,  and  gave  directions  re 
garding  the  institution  to  which  Marion  had 
been  sent. 

The  men  drew  aside  and  discussed  the 
situation.  There  would  not  be  time  to  cover 
the  distance  to  the  other  place  before  morn 
ing,  and  it  would  be  wise  to  wait  till  the 

70 


THE   WINGS   OF   LOVE 


excitement  which  their  action  would  create 
might  die  down.  To  each  one  George  ex 
pressed  his  gratitude.  Then  he  placed  the 
nun  in  the  care  of  one  of  them,  who  was  to 
take  her  to  his  house.  Unseen  by  the  others, 
he  gave  her  some  money.  She  would  need 
this,  and  more,  in  her  coming  experiences. 
Then  they  separated. 

George  had  not  objected  when  his  com 
panions  counseled  delay,  but  in  his  own 
mind  he  planned  very  differently.  Going  to 
an  out-of-town  depot,  he  bought  a  ticket 
which  took  him  to  within  a  few  miles  of  the 
convent  the  nun  had  named.  A  brisk  walk 
shortly  brought  him  near  the  place.  On  the 
other  side  were  the  twinkling  lights  of  a 
village.  After  making  a  careful  examination, 
he  withdrew,  as  the  first  streaks  of  morning 
lanced  the  east.  He  found  a  hotel  apparently 
little  frequented,  secured  a  room  and  threw 
himself  down  to  rest. 

When  night  came  again,  George  moved 
through  the  clasping  dusk  toward  the  House 
of  the  Good  Shepherd.  As  he  hurried  along 
his  mind  was  filled  with  anxious  thoughts. 
He  recalled  the  crimson  line  of  martyrs, 
from  Huss  to  Ferrar,  slain  by  the  institution 
which  was  seeking  to  crush  the  woman  he 
loved.  All  its  infamy  and  cruelty  rose  before 
him.  The  mystery  of  its  iniquity  baffled  him. 
How  had  it  maintained  its  evil  place  in  the 
world  through  all  the  advancing  steps  of 
civilization?  Red  with  the  blood  of  its 
slaughtered  millions,  it  still  defied  liberty 
and  justice  by  running  up  its  ancient  walls 

71 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

about  its  prisons  and  crushing  those  who 
dared  oppose  its  monstrous  absurdities.  He 
paused  and  looked  up  to  heaven  in  silent 
prayer,  asking  for  aid. 

Moving  on  cautiously,  he  approached  the 
rear  of  the  buildings,  then,  keeping  as  close 
as  he  dared,  he  circled  around  them.  In  this 
way  he  located  the  gate  and  the  inside 
entrances.  In  addition  to  the  outside  wall, 
there  were  board  fences  separating  the 
grounds.  These  were  suggestive  enough.  He 
was  convinced  that  Marion  wa*  confined  in 
this  place,  but  how  was  he  to  reach  her?  As 
he  stood  in  the  darkness  trying  to  formulate 
some  plan,  he  made  out  the  form  of  a  man 
crouched  near  the  gate.  He  smiled  grimly. 
The  "beast"  was  guarding  its  interests  well. 
At  a  news-stand  he  had  bought  a  paper  and 
read  that  burglars  had  invaded  the  House 
of  the  Good  Shepherd,  having  first  cut  the 
wires.  This  falsehood  covered  the  facts  in 
the  case.  A  feeling  of  desperation  took  pos 
session  of  him.  He  would  rescue  the  woman 
he  loved  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

Once  more  he  went  to  the  rear  of  the 
wall.  On  his  way  he  passed  a  place  where 
ditchers  had  been  at  work.  Their  tools  lay 
scattered  about.  Taking  a  heavy  bar,  he 
kept  on.  On  reaching  the  wall,  he  looked 
about  for  some  means  of  getting  over  it. 
This  he  accomplished  by  leaning  a  piece  of 
timber  against  the  top.  He  dropped  the  bar, 
end  downward,  and  it  sank  into  the  earth 
noiselessly.  Then  he  swung  down  the  length 
of  his  arms  and  dropped  without  harm.  He 

72 


THE   WINGS   OF   LOVE 


was  on  the  inside.  What  next!  As  soon 
as  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  deeper 
gloom  he  approached  the  nunnery.  It  was 
early,  and  the  windows  were  alight.  At  the 
corner  he  paused  to  think.  What  should  he 
do?  If  he  should  break  in  the  door,  it  would 
bring  great  odds  against  him  immediately. 
Perhaps  he  could  gain  admission  in  the  way 
he  had  done  the  night  before.  He  would 
try.  But  first  he  must  arrange  a  means  of 
escape  if  fortune  favored  him. 

Returning  to  the  wall,  he  placed  against 
it  some  empty  boxes  which  were  at  hand. 
Then  he  went  to  the  door  and  touched  the 
bell.  Soon  he  heard  steps,  and  a  voice  full 
of  caution  inquired  what  was  wanted. 

"A  commitment,"  he  replied,  in  a  gruff 
voice. 

The  ruse  worked.  The  door  opened  ever 
so  little.  Quick  as  a  flash,  George  forced  his 
way  in,  and  commanded  the  woman  to  keep 
silence  as  she  valued  her  life. 

"Take  me  to  Marion  Allison,  the  girl 
who  was  brought  here  yesterday,"  he  com 
manded,  grasping  the  nun's  arm. 

A  struggle  followed,  after  which  there 
was  the  opening  and  closing  of  doors.  Then 
a  cry  of  alarm  rang  through  the  house. 
George  had  a  glimpse  of  several  garbed 
forms  flitting  about.  Then  he  heard  the 
alarm  given  outside.  The  guard  would  be 
upon  him  in  a  few  minutes.  Throwing 
caution  to  the  winds,  he  rushed  at  a  door 
across  the  room,  splintering  it  with  the  bar. 
In  this  manner  he  made  a  passage  for  him- 

6  73 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

self  through  the  building.  Before  the  heavy 
tool  the  panels  gave  way  like  glass.  A  feel 
ing  of  exultant  power  came  to  him.  As  he 
rushed  on  he  called  Marion's  name.  Coming 
to  a  stairway,  he  bounded  up  it.  A  double 
entrace  was  before  him.  He  swung  the  bar 
and  the  doors  crashed  in.  Again  he  called, 
and  this  time  he  was  answered.  He  heard 
a  cry  of  joy,  and  saw  Marion  running  toward 
him,  with  several  nuns  in  pursuit.  The  next 
moment  they  were  down  the  stairs  together. 
Coming  to  a  window,  George  demolished  it. 
Leaping  out,  they  ran  to  the  wall.  Bounding 
to  the  top,  he  reached  down  and  took  her 
hands.  In  a  trice  they  were  over  and  flying 
toward  a  strip  of  woods.  The  sound  of 
running  men  came  to  them.  They  were  being 
pursued. 

Reaching  the  forest,  they  dropped  down 
a  bank  and  crossed  the  bed  of  a  stream. 
George  took  up  two  stones,  then  led  on  into 
the  willow  tangle  beyond.  As  they  entered 
it  they  heard  the  crunching  of  feet  in  the 
gravel.  Drawing  Marion  aside,  he  stepped 
out  and  waited.  Two  forms  came  crashing 
toward  them.  George  hurled  a  stone  with 
terrific  force  at  the  nearest  man.  He  sank 
to  the  earth  with  a  groan.  He  met  the  second 
hand  to  hand;  they  grappled,  but  George 
soon  overpowered  and  bound  him.  Taking  an 
automatic  from  the  pocket  of  one  of  them,  he 
led  the  way  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness. 

After  an  hour  they  paused  to  rest.  Sit 
ting  upon  a  fallen  tree,  he  drew  Marion  to 
him  and  listened,  while  she  rehearsed  in  a 

74 


THE   WINGS   OF  LOVE 


low,  frightened  voice  something  of  the  terri 
ble  experiences  through  which  she  had 
passed.  Then  he  kissed  her  forehead  rever 
ently,  speaking  words  of  comfort  and  assur 
ance. 

"My  sweet  Marion,  God  was  indeed  good 
to  permit  me  to  save  you  from  the  bondage 
of  that  awful  institution.  How  I  thank  Him! 
Never  again  shall  they  touch  you,  save  it  be 
over  my  dead  body." 

"I  was  sure  you  would  come  sometime  to 
take  me  out,  dear,"  she  replied.  "But  it 
was  so  dangerous.  How  brave  and  good 
you  are ! ' ' 

"My  darling,"  he  replied,  brokenly,  "I 
would  die  a  thousand  times,  if  need  be,  for 
your  good." 

"And  that  is  why  I  love  you  so  much," 
she  answered,  nestling  to  him,  while  the  night 
wind  moved  softly  through  the  trees,  and  the 
stars  seemed  very  close  and  kind. 


75 


VII 
BREAKING   THE  IRON  JAW 

rjpHEY  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  steps. 
-*•  Their  pursuers  were  persistent  enough. 
A  moment  later  dark  forms  passed  close  to 
them.  George  and  Marion  moved  carefully 
away  in  an  opposite  direction,  but  the  break 
ing  of  a  stick  revealed  their  presence  and 
the  men  were  quickly  after  them.  Turning 
at  the  edge  of  an  opening,  George  fired  twice 
in  rapid  succession.  Not  waiting  to  see  what 
the  effect  was,  he  sped  on,  Marion  close 
beside  him.  Morning  found  them  on  the 
banks  of  a  river.  After  some  difficulty,  they 
persuaded  a  man  to  take  them  over  in  a 
boat.  A  mile  beyond,  they  came  to  a  cabin. 
The  woman  proved  to  be  kind,  and  they 
rested  here  till  evening.  Then  they  went  on 
through  the  forest  which  covered  the  hills. 
Before  morning  they  glimpsed  the  city's 
lights. 

Going  to  the  west,  they  came  out  on  the 
heights  above  the  metropolis,  and,  finding 
another  open  door,  they  rested  again.  But, 
fearing  that  the  natural  curiosity  of  the 
people  might  lead  to  discovery,  they  con 
cluded  to  retire  to  some  unfrequented  spot 
and  await  developments.  In  a  tangle  of 
undergrowth  which  had  covered  a  small 

76 


BREAKING   THE   IRON   JAW 

clearing  they  found  a  deserted  house.  Every 
thing  bore  witness  that  the  place  was  seldom, 
or  never,  visited.  Here  George  made  Marion 
as  comfortable  as  possible;  gave  her  instruc 
tions  in  the  use  of  the  automatic,  and  stole 
away  into  the  city.  Reaching  the  home  of 
one  of  the  men  who  had  assisted  him  a  few 
nights  before,  he  was  admitted,  and,  in  due 
time,  cleverly  disguised,  he  went  to  the  offices 
of  his  attorneys,  Huston  &  Coruthers,  who 
greeted  him  warmly. 

"A  great  mess  you  have  kicked  up,  young 
fellow.  I  say,  a  great  mess,"  the  senior 
member  bantered,  slapping  George  on  the 
shoulder.  ''Look  at  the  paper  there." 
George  glanced  at  the  sensational  headlines, 
which  announced  that  a  House  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  at  a  neighboring  town  had  been 
invaded  by  an  infatuated  desperado,  and 
that  an  inmate,  who  had  been  committed  for 
immoral  conduct,  had  gone  away  with  him. 
This  was  followed  by  a  scathing  denunciation 
of  the  act.  There  was  also  a  lengthy  editorial 
of  the  same  nature.  George  smiled.  He  knew 
that  the  fear  of  Catholic  boycott  had  forced 
this  publication,  no  matter  what  the  personal 
views  of  the  editor  might  be,  for  the  hier 
archy  censored  the  press,  he  knew. 

"It  is  time  some  one  caused  those  pirates 
trouble,"  he  replied. 

"Right  you  are,  young  fellow;  right  you 
are.  Hadn't  given  the  matter  much  thought 
before,  but  I  find  that  all  such  commitments 
are  unconstitutional,  and  will  not  stand  a 
minute  under  a  real  test  of  law." 

77 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

"Then,  force  the  issue!"  George  spoke 
with  heat. 

"Trust  us  for  that.  We  intend  to  carry 
the  case  to  the  highest  court  in  the  land,  if 
necessary  to  get  the  decision  we  want.  There 
will  be  no  need  of  that,  however,  for  the 
State  is  aroused.  Telegrams  and  letters  are 
coming  in.  The  sleeping  sentiment  on  this 
question  is  taking  fire.  The  people  are 
demanding  an  investigation,  and  the  priests 
are  shuffling  about  in  their  mother  hubbards 
at  a  great  rate.  Those  pouchy  rascals  must 
be  taught  that  they  are  not  in  South  America, 
Spain  or  Mexico,  and  that  we  won't  stand 
for  their  Jesuitical  work." 

This  was  welcome  news  to  George  Ains- 
ley,  and  he  hurried  back  to  communicate  it 
to  Marion,  taking  supplies  with  him.  He 
found  her  in  tears.  The  spot  was  lonely  and 
her  condition  miserable.  The  injustice  of  it 
all  caused  him  to  flame  with  anger.  What 
was  this  diabolical  power  which  took  an  inno 
cent  victim  and  crushed  her  in  its  greed-mills, 
then  hunted  her  like  a  wild  beast  through  the 
forest?  This  was  evidence  enough  of  the 
deplorable  condition  of  the  country. 

Having  secured  an  invitation,  George  con 
ducted  Marion  to  the  home  of  a  man  he 
could  trust.  There  she  remained  in  hiding, 
while  he  went  and  came,  keeping  in  touch 
with  the  developments  of  the  case.  The 
papers  were  filled  with  the  sensation.  Prom 
inent  lawyers  were  bidding  for  fees  by  volun 
teering  opinions  on  each  side.  The  hierarchy 
rushed  into  print,  but,  as  usual,  in  a  Jesuit- 
is 


BREAKING   THE   IRON   JAW 

ical  manner.  Nothing  appeared  over  the 
name  of  a  priest,  yet  it  was  evident  that  the 
streams  of  invective  and  slander  issued  from 
their  retreats.  The  storm  had  broken  which, 
for  generations,  had  been  gathering.  The 
tragic  stories  of  escaped  nuns,  with  all  who 
had  been  crushed  and  blighted  in  the  horror- 
chambers  of  Rome,  were  bearing  fruit.  The 
people  were  aroused.  Something  would  have 
to  be  done.  The  girl  who  had  escaped  when 
Marion  failed  had  published  her  statement  of 
the  cruelties  of  the  House  of  the  Good  Shep 
herd.  Others  who  had  feared  to  speak  came 
forward  to  corroborate  the  facts  given. 
Slowly  the  editors  began  to  feel  the  new 
pulse,  and  their  tone  changed.  If  there  was 
a  reformation  at  hand,  they  must  be  on  the 
flood  of  it.  Meantime,  Archbishop  Crastie 
marshalled  his  forces  and  worked  in  the  way 
of  a  Jesuit.  Thus  the  excitement  grew.  Hus 
ton  &  Coruthers  boldly  announced  that  they 
would  fight  the  issue  to  the  last  extremity. 
Both  factions  retained  powerful  lawyers. 
Injunctions  were  obtained.  The  judges  began 
to  take  notice  of  the  sentiment  which  they 
had  not  dreamed  existed,  and,  as  is  usual  with 
politicians,  to  adjust  themselves  accordingly. 
Then  came  the  day  when  the  matter  was 
to  be  fought  out  in  court.  Counsel  for  the 
prosecution  would  appeal  to  the  sentiments 
of  the  people,  and  then  the  constitutional 
features  would  be  brought  forth.  When 
George  and  Marion  entered  the  crowded 
room,  it  caused  a  sensation  which  the  court 
found  it  hard  to  subdue.  The  sight  of  the 

79 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

man  who  had  risked  his  life  to  save  the 
woman  he  loved  moved  many  to  tears. 

Marion's  companion  in  her  attempted 
escape  was  called  first.  The  girl  gave  a 
straightforward  testimony,  stating  the  cruel 
ties  and  degradations  of  the  House  of  the 
Good  Shepherd.  During  her  recital  the  audi 
ence  frequently  gave  vent  to  its  rising  tide 
of  indignation.  Then  Marion  was  called  to 
the  stand.  The  stillness  of  death  reigned  in 
the  room  as  she  walked  to  the  chair  and 
stood  to  take  the  oath.  She  was  calm,  but 
very  pale.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her. 
She  was  asked  to  state  the  particulars  of  her 
attempt  to  escape  from  the  House  of  the 
Good  Shepherd,  giving  her  reasons  for  doing 
so.  Objections  to  this  were  overruled  by  the 
court,  which  indicated  that  the  judge  pur 
posed  that  all  the  facts  should  be  brought 
out.  Marion  was  requested  to  proceed  in 
her  own  way  to  depict  the  things  done  in  the 
institution.  A  look  from  George  encouraged 
her,  and  she  soon  found  herself  carried  along 
with  a  sense  of  indignation,  while  she  stated 
graphically  what  she  had  experienced. 

"The  miseries  of  the  House  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  can  not  be  described,"  she  began. 
"I  was  simply  railroaded  into  the  place 
without  cause.  Nor  was  I  given  a  chance  to 
secure  legal  aid  or  a  hearing.  Judge  Gatenby 
committed  me  on  his  own  whim.  I  had 
broken  no  law,  neither  was  I  in  need.  In 
that  institution  they  are  starved  and  mis 
treated.  They  are  even  compelled  to  sit 
twelve  hours  at  their  machines  in  order  to 

80 


BREAKING   THE   IRON   JAW 

get  out  their  allotments.  Their  shoulders  are 
stooped  and  their  lungs  are  decaying.  I 
never  saw  such  hopeless  eyes.  Always,  some 
one  is  being  whipped  or  abused.  The  food  is 
vile,  much  of  it  donated  from  the  waste  boxes 
of  the  restaurants  and  the  groceries.  I  have 
known  of  as  many  as  seven  girls  being 
washed  in  one  bath  to  save  water  expenses. 
For  the  most  trifling  infractions  of  the  rules 
the  little  slaves  are  brutally  mistreated.  The 
scourge  is  often  used.  I  have  suffered  this 
myself,  at  the  hands  of  Mother  Elizabeth, 
and  I  have  seen  her  applying  it  to  others. 
The  body  is  first  stripped,  and  then  the 
thongs  lash  the  naked  flesh.  More,  they 
throw  them  into  dungeons  and  starve  them. 
They  are  compelled  to  eat  from  the  floor  with 
their  hands  tied  behind  them.  Their  hair 
is  haggled  off,  and  some  are  made  to  finish 
their  tasks  kneeling  before  a  statue  of  the 
Virgin  Mary.  The  very  air  is  filled  with 
fear  and  cruelty.  In  that  institution  are 
scores  of  girls  who  were  committed  to  it 
without  any  form  of  law,  and  others  are  held 
long  after  their  sentences  have  expired. 
Many  have  been  spirited  in  from  other 
States.  In  every  sense  they  are  slaves. 
Many  of  the  little  things  look  upon  their 
tormentors  wonderingly,  not  knowing  why 
they  are  treated  so.  And  for  their  toil  they 
receive  nothing." 

As  Marion  left  the  stand  the  crowd  broke 
into  angry  protestations  of  indignation. 
Then  came  a  surprise.  The  judge,  who  had 
given  Marion  a  very  close  hearing,  instructed 

81 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

the  sheriff  to  proceed  immediately  to  the 
House  of  the  Good  Shepherd  and  bring  half 
a  dozen  witnesses  taken  at  random;  also,  to 
conduct  Mother  Elizabeth  into  his  presence. 
This  was  done.  The  sensation  was  increased 
when  the  woman  appeared  in  her  robes, 
haughty  of  manner,  her  eyes  full  of  anger. 

The  testimony  of  these  witnesses  only 
confirmed  what  had  already  been  given.  One 
who  stated  that  she  had  been  whipped  by  the 
superior  bared  her  shoulders,  at  the  request 
of  the  court,  and  showed  the  long,  black 
welts  which  were  still  raw.  The  girl  testified 
that  she  had  been  compelled  to  continue  at 
her  machine  in  this  condition,  besides  being 
subjected  to  days  of  starvation. 

Then  Mother  Elizabeth  was  sworn.  Her 
testimony  consisted  of  blank  denials  and  sar 
castic  utterances  which  called  forth  rebukes 
from  the  court.  When  asked  to  explain  the 
bruises  on  the  body  of  the  girl,  she  endeav 
ored  to  shift  it  to  some  nun  who  had  acted 
in  her  absence  and  without  her  sanction. 
When  asked  to  explain  why  she  had  per 
mitted  the  child  to  continue  at  her  machine 
in  such  a  condition,  she  made  no  reply. 

As  the  superior  left  the  stand,  the  attor 
ney  for  the  prosecution  called  Marion  back 
for  another  statement. 

"You  say  you  were  whipped  with  this 
'cat-o'-nine,'  of  which  we  have  been  hearing, 
Miss  Allison?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

* '  Please  state  who  it  was  that  used  it  upon 


you." 


82 


BREAKING   THE   IRON   JAW 

"Mother  Elizabeth." 

"That  will  do." 

As  Marion  left  the  chair,  the  lawyer  arose 
and  addressed  the  sheriff,  by  permission  of 
the  court: 

"Mr.  Sheriff,  here  is  a  warrant  for  the 
arrest  of  Mother  Elizabeth,  charging  her 
with  cruelty  and  inhuman  treatment.  Please 
see  that  she  is  deprived  of  her  liberty  till 
further  action  may  be  taken." 

The  sheriff  obeyed,  and  the  nun  was 
placed  in  a  cell.  Some  priests  who  were 
informed  of  this  came  in  to  protest,  but  were, 
for  the  time  at  least,  removed  from  the 
courtroom  by  order  of  the  judge. 

When  the  lawyers  had  finished  their  argu 
ments  on  the  constitutional  features  involved, 
the  court  took  the  matter  under  advisement 
and  the  case  rested.  As  George  and  Marion 
left  the  room  they  received  evidence  of  the 
profound  sympathy  of  the  crowd.  It  was 
evident  that  a  better  day  had  dawned.  Soon 
all  the  gates  of  Eoman  prisons  would  be 
thrown  open,  never  more  to  be  closed. 

After  due  consideration,  the  court  handed 
down  its  decision.  The  findings  were  to  the 
effect  that  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd, 
as  conducted,  was  an  unconstitutional  thing. 
The  juvenile  court  had  acted  without  author 
ity,  and  those  so  committed  were  unlawfully 
deprived  of  their  liberty.  He  therefore 
ordered  that  all  the  inmates  should  be  re 
leased  at  once,  and  that  in  the  future  every 
commitment  must  be  made  by  proper  civil 
processes.  It  seemed  clear  to  the  court  that 

83 


THE   MOAN   OF   THE   TIBER 

the  Eoman  Catholic  Church,  through  its 
political  manipulations,  had  concocted  a 
scheme  by  which  to  supply  its  institutions 
with  unpaid  labor,  and  that  in  this  it  was 
liable  to  prosecution  for  obtaining  money 
under  false  pretenses  and  imprisoning  indi 
viduals  unlawfully. 

The  entire  commonwealth  was  thrilled 
with  sympathetic  interest.  Letters  poured 
in,  expressing  the  most  intense  feeling  on 
each  side.  Judge  Gatenby  resigned  in  haste. 
Mrs.  Bolton  followed.  A  call  over  the  tele 
phone  brought  George  and  Marion  to  the 
offices  of  Huston  &  Coruthers.  All  entered 
a  machine  and  hurried  out  to  the  House  of 
the  Good  Shepherd.  They  arrived  ahead  of 
the  sheriff.  Priests  were  seen  shuffling  about, 
fuming  furiously.  Archbishop  Crastie  was 
there,  pronouncing  curses  and  kissing  the 
cross  which  dangled  over  his  full-length  black 
robe.  George  took  Marion  by  the  arm  and 
approached  them. 

''I  want  you  Jesuits  to  see  Marion  Alli 
son.  I  told  you  that  you  had  taken  one  too 
many  victims  to  your  prison.  The  next 
thing  you  and  your  doves  of  the  temple  will 
have  to  face  is  a  case  of  damages  for  false 
imprisonment.  We  came  out  to  enjoy  the 
first  opening  in  America  of  a  Roman  Cath 
olic  institution  by  process  of  law." 

George  and  Marion  kept  close  to  the 
sheriff  and  his  assistants,  as  they  entered 
and  began  forcing  the  doors.  Marion  led  the 
way  through  the  buildings.  In  the  dungeon 
they  found  nothing  but  the  evidence  of  the 

84 


BREAKING   THE   IRON   JAW 

sufferers  who  had  been  there.  The  door  of 
this  place  was  beaten  down.  Then  came  the 
children  and  girls,  a  stream  of  abject  human 
ity,  their  hollow  eyes  full  of  bewilderment. 
As  the  fact  began  to  dawn  on  them  that  they 
were  free,  they  were  overcome  with  joy  and 
gratitude.  Reporters  were  busy  writing  the 
epoch-making  affair.  Crowds  were  arriving 
constantly.  Automobiles  came  panting  up, 
filled  with  curious  people.  Cheer  on  cheer 
broke  from  the  patriotic  mass  of  onlookers. 
Lifting  his  hand,  George  Ainsley  vowed  that 
he  would  spend  his  life  in  the  work  of  open 
ing  the  prisons  of  Rome,  till  not  a  nun  or 
girl  remained  in  involuntary  servitude  behind 
her  locked  gates  and  barred  windows. 

"In  that  I  will  stand  by  you,  dear," 
Marion  seconded,  in  a  low,  firm  voice. 

As  they  turned  to  leave,  they  saw  William 
Allison  coming  toward  them.  Something  in 
his  face  and  walk  caused  Marion  to  cry  out 
for  joy,  as  she  ran  to  him. 

"Oh,  father,  you  are  changed!"  she  cried, 
clinging  to  his  neck. 

"Yes,  child,  completely  changed.  I  need 
not  tell  you  of  the  process ;  at  least,  not  now. 
When  I  found  you  gone,  and  knew  it  was 
my  fault — well,  He  knows  what  I  felt  and 
what  I  did."  The  man  looked  upward  and 
pointed  in  the  direction  of  his  glance. 

"I  am  a  changed  man,"  he  said,  brokenly, 
his  eyes  misty. 

Marion  gave  way  to  happy  tears.  George 
grasped  the  hand  of  William  Allison  enthu 
siastically. 

85 


THE   MOAN   OF  THE   TIBER 

"I  always  believed  you  would  do  it,"  he 
cried,  finding  it  hard  to  control  his  feelings. 

At  that  instant  a  machine  arrived,  and 
George  heard  his  name  called.  Looking  up, 
he  saw  the  pastor  of  Marion's  church  alight 
ing. 

"I  congratulate  you  both,"  the  minister 
began,  stepping  toward  them. 

George  drew  back.  "How  about  your 
official  board?"  he  asked. 

The  minister  laughed.  "Don't  be  too 
hard  on  a  fellow,  Ainsley.  I  have  most  of 
them  with  me.  I  needed  what  you  gave  me, 
all  right,  for  it  set  me  to  thinking.  Since 
then,  we  have  gone  into  the  backbone  busi 
ness  down  at  our  church,  and,  you  take  it 
from  me,  I  am  after  the  other  preachers  just 
as  you  went  after  me.  Shake!" 

The  hands  of  the  men  closed  in  a  clasp 
that  was  a  covenant  of  a  united  Protestan 
tism  in  the  overthrow  of  political  Komanism 
in  America, 


Romanism  Exposed 


CENTER-SHOTS  AT  ROME 

By  George  P.  Rutledge 

Cloth,    !2mo.     Price,  postpaid,  $1.00 

Being  a  series  of  seven  addresses  delivered  before  packed 
houses  in  Columbus.  O.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  modern  writer 
has  so  successfully  employed  the  shafts  of  wit  and  logic  and 
keen  research  in  exposing  this  medieval  politico-religious 
body  to  the  limelight  of  public  judgment. 

THE  OLD   GEVENOL 

A  realistic  tale  of  the  persecution  of  the  Huguenot* 
By  Rabattt  Saint -Etienne 
Translated  from  the  French  by  A.  E.   Seddon 

Decorated  boards,    12mo.     Price,  postpaid,  75c. 

A  stirring  tale  of  Protestant  suffering.  The  plot  of  this 
absorbing  story  is  laid  in  the  times  of  Louis  XIV.,  when 
the  extravagance  and  splendor  of  the  French  Court  were 
astonishing  all  Europe.  Tlie  author.  Rabaut  Saint-Etienne, 
was  a  famous  and  eloquent  Protestant  preacher,  and  his 
reiiearsal  of  the  trials  and  persecutions  of  Ambrose  Borely, 
of  Cevennes.  and  other  Protestants  of  those  perilous  times, 
is  true  to  the  horrible  facts  of  history. 

HOW  I  BECAME  A  NON-CATHOLIC 

Being  a  brilliant  refutation  of  the  sophistries  underlying 

Catholic  theology 
By  John  Hunkey 

Cloth,  gilt  stamp,    12mo.     Price,  postpaid,  $1.00 

This  work  treats  wholly  of  Romish  theology.  The  two 
fundamental  doctrines  of  the  "Church"  are  examined,  and 
their  utter  lack  of  foundation  clearly  revealed.  No  work 
proves  more  conclusively  that  Catholicism,  in  all  its  aspects, 
is  built  upon  the  shifting  sands  of  error  and  ignorance. 
The  author  was  for  forty  years  in  the  Church  of  Rome. 

CONSTITUTION   OR  POPE? 

By  Gilbert  O.  Nations 

12mo,  boards.     Price,  postpaid,  50c.;  paper,  25c. 

The  author,  a  brilliant  lawyer,  tells,  in  this  valuable 
little  volume,  why  alien  Roman  Catholics  can  not  be  legally 
naturalized.  He  gives  a  clear,  concise  statement  of  the 
facts  and  law  bearing  on  this  vital  question. 

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"The  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin'  of  Catholicism" 

The  Black  Prophet 

By  GUY  FITCH  PHELPS 

Handsomely    bound  in    red  cloth. 
Decorated  cover. 

Jacket  printed  in  colors. 

Price,  postpaid.  $1.35 

"  'The    Black    Prophet'   is   the   best   anti-Papal   story 
ever   written." — The  Menace. 
^  « 

"This  book   is,   in   the   form  of  an   attractively   writ 
ten   story,  one  of  the  strongest  arraignments  of  Cathol 
icism  that  have  come  from  the  press." — Christian  Index. 
«  « 

"If  you  want  a  thousand  facts  about  the  most  colossal 
fraud  that  was  ever  conceived  in  the  heart  of  man  under 
the  guise  of  religion,  read  'The  Black  Prophet.'  "—Jas. 
T.  Nichols. 

^  ^ 

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Phelps,   as   the   best   patriotic   fiction   that    I    have   read. 

It  ought  to  have  a  great  sale  and  do  a  world  of  good." 

— Gilbert  O.  Nations,  Author  of  "Constitution  or  Pope?" 

^  « 

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and  see  Rome  at  work,  they  can  get  it  in  this  book.  At 
the  same  time  they  will  find  also  a  sweet  idyl  of  pure 
love — like  the  contrast  between  hell  and  heaven." — The 
Evangelical. 

^^ 

"I    have    read    'The    Black    Prophet,'    by    Guy    Fitch 
Phelps,   with   great   interest.     It   is   a   gripping   work   of 
fiction,    revealing   truth    in    a   most   realistic   manner."- 
Aur/ustus     Conrad    Ekholm,     Author    of    "Christianity's 
Greatest  Peril." 

«  « 

"  'The  Black  Prophet'  is  the  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin' 
of  the  anti-Papal  crusade.  The  plot  is  laid  in  the 
West,  and  the  descriptions  are  as  picturesque  as  any 
thing  Harold  Bell  Wright  ever  wrote." — Georae  P.  Rut- 
ledge,  Author  of  "Center-shots  at  Rome." 

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